Head Over Feet
by NotAContrivance
Summary: AU. Bridget and Andrew meet cute. And classily. In a strip club. Intrigued by Bridget's resemblance to his wife, a lonely Andrew asks her for a favor and gets a lot more than he bargained for... and he's not the only one.
1. You've Already Won Me Over

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! This is my present to you.

So, since I'm kind of going insane with nothing to read here (and, in my experience, fandoms being this dead while new episodes are airing is generally a bad sign) and feeling bad about not contributing to it, I decided to post this. I originally wanted to wait until it was finished, but if that was true then, well, I wouldn't have many fics on this site, now would I? And apparently this is my 50th fic on the site, which is rather a shame since I don't think this is that special or anything, and I wanted 50 to be special. Oh well.

Anyway, I wrote this a while ago, like before the hiatus, before Catherine had ever come into the picture, so if there's anything off about her I apologize, but she's not really mentioned much or important to this story, so whatever... Anyway, I'm kinda gonna hate myself for this, but let me first begin by saying that this is intended to be a chapter fic, and I do actually have quite a bit of the next chapter written, and I don't see this being an especially long story, per se... but I don't know when I'm going to update it since this is a really busy and crazy and very writing-intensive semester for me, and I already have like, three other Ringer stories (including Getting to Know You, which I have a lot of but need to fill in some gaps in key areas) in various stages of completion, so it's probably best to think of this as a one-shot for now.

This story's AU, obviously, so pretty much none of the events on the show have happened except for the earlier Bridget/Siobhan flashbacks. Since we obviously don't know what went down with Bridget, Bodaway, and Shaylene, I can't get into all of that and don't entirely want to, but Bridget probably still sort of knows who Bodaway is, and obviously something, some kind of near-miss, happened to kind of scare her straight. She hasn't been arrested by the cops recently. Anyway, since Bridget doesn't have Bodaway and Machado all over her, she's been sober for a while but she's still taking methadone to sort of get off her heroin addiction, gradually reducing the dose. She's also managed to sort of turn her life around with a pretty well-paying job in one of the nicer gentlemen's clubs in Lake Tahoe, but just because she's mostly got her life on track doesn't mean she's all the way there yet. The Bridget in this story is a bit less settled and than the one on the show because she hasn't been sober quite as long and doesn't have much of a support system, even though she goes to meetings. Malcolm will possibly figure into her life somewhere.

As for Siobhan... Siobhan and Bridget are still estranged, though Bridget may or may not have written the letter to Siobhan. Bridget does know that Siobhan is married. Also, whatever nefarious plans Siobhan is cooking up on the show probably aren't going to come into play mostly due to a lack of caring on my part and the fact that I just find them incredibly poorly-planned and thought-out. Depending on what Bridget did to earn her sister's ire, I might include that too, but we'll see. Andrew and Siobhan are still married, and things between them are just about as bad as you'd expect... so he's unhappy, and she's still having an affair with Henry. Also, more importantly, like in the show at first, Andrew doesn't know Bridget exists.

Also, seriously, I MUST love you guys because I watched the WORST lap-dance videos ever. Like, comedically awful, in order to write this scene. And I apologize if it's repetitive or whatever, but it's the result of a lot of different things cobbled together to make a hopefully coherent whole. I'm sure stripper!Bridget on the show will be far better at this than I was. I also feel that I must say that this is not meant to be offensive in any way to strippers/exotic dancers/whatever you want to call them. I am not a stripper, nor do I pretend to be one, so I apologize if I don't know what I'm talking about. I did my best to do my research through the sleazy world of YouTube lap dance videos and stripper websites and message boards and ChaCha answers and whatnot. Also, just saying, I saw "Bridget" listed as a potential stripper name on some website for people who want to be strippers. Anyway, this story is just the product of an idea that wouldn't go away, about what might've happened if Andrew had met Bridget when she was a stripper, since, after all, he presumably met Siobhan in Tahoe too.

So I hope you enjoy it, and I would love, love, LOVE to hear from you if you liked it, hated it, or if you want to have its babies or whatever. And, as always, I am obligated to say that I don't own Ringer (though I do own Glen, but who'd want him?), but I think that's pretty obvious since I don't care for Henry quite so much as the writers do, and he and Siobhan would have maybe five minutes of screentime together, if I even let them still be together. But that is neither here nor there, and, without further ado, here's the story!

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><p>Looking back, Andrew even didn't know how he wound up in the club in the first place. It wasn't his scene. He was back in Tahoe for a few days, meeting with some business associates. It was also supposed to be some kind of vacation, not that he was even remotely enjoying himself here. Everything in Lake Tahoe reminded him of her, and it hurt, like a blister on the foot, rubbing against an open sore with every step. This was where they'd met, after all, where it had all begun, the chain of events his wife had set in motion that had led to his current misery.<p>

It especially pained him to remember how happy they'd been, to look around and remember doing things with her here, back when she was a different woman and he too much the same man. He'd been so happy then, with her, that he'd never imagined it would come to this, him ruing her name (their name? Did they even share that much nowadays?). How had it come to this, anyway? They'd seemed so happy and then... one day, they weren't anymore. It seemed as if his wife had started hating him overnight, and no matter what he did, he couldn't change that. He only seemed to make things worse, and now she'd refused to even see him. "You'll do fine without me there, Andrew. You always do," she'd said a bit nastily over the phone.

He'd tried to cut back on the business trips, he really had, but it was never enough. He had no real incentive to stick around when it was clear that she didn't want him there. When they were together, when he was in her life, she looked at him as though he was just the plodding, clueless, _useless_ husband she had to tolerate and put up with. He was always walking on eggshells, always stepping on land mines. He was always doing something wrong, always putting his foot in it. Nothing he did was ever enough for her, and it was maddening.

His life was slowly falling apart, and it had been like this for months... years if he was really being honest with himself. He'd thought meeting her and falling in love with her was the beginning of his life, that he hadn't really been living until she'd enlivened and brightened up his days, but she'd tricked him and cruelly snatched that light and life away from him. And now he understood that it was the end. It was becoming more unbearable by the day.

Andrew threw back what remained of his Scotch with an expression of distaste. It burned his throat a bit unpleasantly, not quite as subtly as a better brand might've. He preferred a more aged single malt, but this was the best they had, so he had to make do. He motioned to one of the waitresses, who wore little more than the scantily-clad girls up on stage, and she came over hurriedly. "Another," he muttered, handing her the empty glass. She scampered off, flashing him a flirtatious smile he didn't notice.

His business associates had said he needed to have a bit of fun, that he was always so gloomy and serious all the time, that he needed to lighten up. They were right, of course; Andrew could acknowledge that much about himself. He'd always been a serious man, rarely having the time or inclination for more frivolous pursuits. He'd always had goals, and his master plan did not include time or tolerance for such unnecessary ephemeral amusements. Though he knew he could certainly afford it, he rarely used his considerable wealth for such diversions.

Neither Siobhan nor Catherine before her would especially care if he took up with some slag, but Andrew really had very little desire to become such a cliché. He ought to just accept the fact that he only fell in love with and married difficult, vicious women who made him miserable and quickly turned love-filled unions into shams. What use would he have for some woman who actually made him happy? She'd doubtlessly just turn into some sort of closed-off mess just like the rest of the women in his life, and what was the point of getting himself entangled in another messy divorce and remarriage?

Anyway, his associates had dragged him to this strip club, no doubt curious as to how their stuffy British business partner who never talked about women around them would react to such a vulgar display. He was sure they were very amused to see him here, drinking and sulking. He, unlike his associates, was dreadfully bored with all of it. The show on stage interested him very little, and he would need to get a lot more drunk before he could even appreciate the half-naked women gyrating in front of him. If he thought about that for a moment, it was pretty pathetic that he needed to get himself drunk to appreciate the sight of a mostly-naked woman. He'd repressed his sex drive so much that it had all but died.

What little sex life he had, if he could call it that, consisted of an occasional wank in the shower or rare boringly predictable and unsatisfying sex with his wife. Sex with Siobhan had become perfunctory, usually a planned thing, once a week if he was lucky. It was done in the dark, always missionary position, with his wife lying on her back, stiff as a board, barely moving in response to his thrusts. He didn't particularly enjoy it either and usually had to think back to their honeymoon just to keep going. She half-heartedly pretended to enjoy herself, but she was dry to the bone inside. She wouldn't even let him touch her. They never kissed anymore, not even when he was inside of her. It felt like he was making a bank deposit, quite honestly. He knew she was just doing it so he couldn't claim a lack of sex as grounds for divorce. And no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to reach her, couldn't seem to get closer to her like he needed.

He glanced up morosely at the strippers. Maybe one of them could tell him what he was doing wrong. A bitter smile crossed his lips at the thought. Fortunately, the barmaid had returned with his drink. This one was more full than the last one. He accepted it, giving her a polite yet grateful smile and a healthy tip. He turned away before he could see her answering smile, starting in on the much-appreciated whiskey. He'd been at the club about an hour and a half, had been drinking more or less since he'd gotten there, and he wasn't even halfway drunk yet. It was rather unfortunate, since he at least wanted to be able to forget his troubles.

The drinking was, however, making him think about his wife even more, taking down the barriers that usually prevented him from being upset at her all-too-frequent dismissals. He shook his head; he shouldn't have to build up walls against his own wife, for God's sake!

One of his acquaintances, Glen Richards, a jolly bachelor who owned several casinos in Reno and who thought rather a lot of himself for someone who had less than ten million, clapped a hand on his shoulder. Andrew almost spilled his drink and glowered at the man in response. Glen was a bit too parvenu, really, throwing his money around and thinking they were all buddy-buddy just because Andrew took his money for investments. He'd take just about anyone's money to make a tidy profit off of it. "Honestly, man, you have _got_ to relax! Look at where you are!" he exclaimed, gesturing around the strip club. Andrew gave him a look, but Glen didn't let up, giving him a look right back. "Come on, man," he urged, "You need a little fun. You need to get laid." Andrew's jaw tightened, and he looked away, irritated.

No matter how bad things were in his marriage, he'd learned five years ago that cheating did not go well for him, not that he would cheat on his wife with a bloody stripper. He at least respected her more than _that. _He'd felt sort of dirty after every moment he'd spent with Siobhan while he was still married, and he knew he'd feel even worse now if he cheated on her with some other woman. Glen wrapped his arm around Andrew's shoulder, leaning in so close to him that Andrew could smell the cheap liquor on his breath. He frowned in distaste. Andrew had recently been treated to the sight of his buddy getting a lap dance from a buxom brunette, which explained Glen's good mood. "Seriously, do you have any idea how many girls here have tried to flirt with you?" Andrew rolled his eyes, not amused or interested, throwing back about half the glass.

Glen sighed, a bit annoyed with Andrew's ability to spoil his good time, no doubt. Not that Andrew particularly cared. "Pick a girl, Martin," he said authoritatively, "I'm paying." Andrew just barely fought down the sneer. Oh, yes, his lack of interest was clearly money-motivated. Quite frankly, Andrew found the whole thing rather demoralizing and degrading, the thought of paying for a person. Didn't Glen realize that he and the rest of them were just dollar signs to the pretty girls they objectified? Andrew had enough problems wondering if people liked him for his wealth or who he was as a person without actually encouraging people to see him that way. Glen pulled on Andrew's shoulder, forcibly turning him towards the stage. "What about that one, eh?" he said, gesturing to a blonde who was wrapping herself around a pole. Andrew thought she was doing some rather impressive acrobatics but said nothing. "She looks a bit like your wife, doesn't she, 'Drew?" Glen observed as the woman flipped the hair out of her face.

Andrew _hated_ being called Drew. The only thing he hated being called more was Andy. But Glen had a point, he noted, getting a glimpse at the woman's face in profile. She sort of did look like his wife with the long blonde hair, light eyes, and birthmark on her arm. She also possessed the same kind of refinement his wife did, though she didn't hold herself quite as high as Siobhan did, obviously. He tore his eyes away from her. The more he looked at her, the more he was reminded of his wife, and the more he didn't like it. Glen smirked to himself, clapping Andrew on the shoulder once again to be rewarded with another expression of distaste. "I see we have a winner. I knew you went for blondes, 'Drew. She'll be over soon," he proclaimed, signaling to the girl, who saw and nodded before taking a breath and executing a particularly difficult maneuver.

Andrew'd caught a bit of her theatrics and was impressed at the strength of her thigh muscles. Maybe he was a bit interested in her, if only because she really _did_ resemble his wife. And Glen was right about his type being blondes. He sipped his Scotch, casting occasional glances at her but trying not to get caught watching her. He felt dirty staring at her, really, but she even seemed to have his wife's beautifully-toned body (though perhaps her muscles were a bit tighter than his wife's), which he hadn't seen properly in about two years. He missed her a lot, the Siobhan he'd married, and it was starting to get to him.

He gives the blonde winding around him instead of the pole only a passing thought. It'd be entertaining but ultimately not worth it; Siobhan and he had both learned from the dissolution of his last marriage, and they had an infidelity clause in their prenuptial agreement. The song wound to a close, and other men stuffed money in the blonde's g-string and bra. She smiled at them gratefully, but he could sense the revulsion when some of the hands came a little too close. She ducked behind the curtain with a shy smile that might've been directed towards him, and then he didn't think of her anymore.

However, he was surprised when the same girl emerged from the backstage area a few minutes later, still a bit sweaty, but freshly made-up and wearing a bit more clothing, a very clingy cherry red negligee and lingerie set. He raised a brow when she actually made a beeline for their group. He'd wondered what she'd done with all the money she'd earned. He might've tipped her out of respect for her skills if she hadn't been so far away. She stopped in front of Glen, an expectant and inviting look on her face. Andrew wondered if he was the only one who could tell that faking all those smiles wore on her, or if he was just more attuned to it, seeing that he had more experience playing a role than other men.

"Hi," she said coyly. "Enjoying the show?" she asked, glancing briefly up at the stage. The syrup in her voice made Andrew feel a bit sick. In all honesty, strippers disgusted him a little... that they didn't think they were worth more than that sort of life, that they were content removing their clothes for money and being dehumanized by leering eyes. "How can I help you?" she continued in the same voice. Glancing at her, Andrew imagined her gritting her teeth on the inside. Glen wasn't exactly a dreamboat.

Glen was eating the attention up, of course, but he enjoyed making Andrew sweat a bit more than that. He smiled pleasantly at the girl. Glen patted Andrew's shoulder with a familiarity that made Andrew grimace like he'd swallowed something nasty. The girl's lips turned up at the corners, and he heard a faint giggle issue from her lips like she understood the unwanted touch. And of course she would, wouldn't she? Andrew glanced up at her up-close for the first time and froze, staring at her. She didn't _just_ resemble his wife; she looked _**exactly **_the same as Siobhan.

"Hi. Actually, Miss, I think you can help my friend more than me," Glen began, throwing Andrew a bemused look. He squeezed Andrew's shoulder. Andrew tried to shrug out of Glen's grasp, but Glen was a bear of a man, and he couldn't shake him. The girl's eyes were bright, silently laughing at him. Those were Siobhan's eyes, all right. "He's no fun, and he needs to loosen up... and I think a lap dance would perk him right up, don't you?" Glen suggested, motioning to Andrew. Their companions roared with laughter, and Andrew glared at all of them fiercely. The only reason he hadn't verbally upbraided anyone was because they were mostly investors, and he received a portion of their income.

The girl nodded, letting out a bell-like laugh and tossing her wavy hair. It was one of two or three differences he could see between her and Siobhan: she wore her hair loose and wavy, she was thinner, and she wore a lot more eyeliner, which made her look younger than his wife but a bit trashier. It also made her eyes stand out more. She had the same golden-green eyes of his wife. "I think I could arrange that," she told Glen with a smile, taking two small steps over to Andrew so that she now stood in front of him. Her smile turned wry as she met his gaze, jerking her head in his direction. "You up for it, handsome?" she asked suggestively, raising her eyebrows at him, standing over him.

Someone else chuckled and said he would be soon. Glen, however, nudged the utterly silent Andrew, who managed a nod, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that she looked like his wife, the love of his life and his greatest critic, that made him somehow nervous. Still, he didn't think he would've agreed if she didn't look so very much like his wife; he'd refused several earlier offers for lap dances, hadn't even engaged the women in conversation.

He downed the rest of his Scotch in a swallow, setting it back on the table a bit hastily. He was an intensely private person and didn't exactly want all the guys seeing a woman grind up on him with the purpose of arousing him, nor did he want to share any piece of himself with this temporary woman with her feigned interest. She seemed to sense that he was ill at ease because she bent down and slowly placed her hands on his shoulders, fingers kneading the all-too-tense muscles there. Her eyes glittered the same way his wife's often did but more flirtatiously. "I'm Bridget," she murmured, leaning into his ear, giving him a dazzling smile.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had smiled at him like that. Andrew wasn't naïve; he knew his presence didn't exactly inspire smiles or goodwill. All the same, though, it softened him a little bit.

He felt her breath on the side of his neck, and he felt hot all over. He was probably the color of her negligee by now. Her full breasts were almost level with his face. It was enough to make his mouth water a little. He removed her right hand from his shoulder, taking it in his and shaking it solemnly. "I'm Andrew. Pleased to meet you," he said a bit more shakily than he'd intended. Her grip was firm and gentle, though a bit surprised, and, oddly enough, sweaty. All of his companions laughed raucously at the sight of him shaking hands with a stripper, as if he were conducting a business deal, but she merely smiled and didn't say a word.

Bridget had the strange feeling that, for whatever reason, she was supposed to know who this man in front of her was, that he was somehow important in her life. He seemed somewhat familiar, but she couldn't think of a single Andrew she'd ever met who was even remotely like the man in front of her. Either way, he was certainly not her usual sleazebag client. Some girls would call him a whale. He was refined, disinterested, aloof, uptight, confident, and clearly above the likes of her, yet he was consenting to this dance. She was also aware that he was substantially more attractive and wealthier than her usual mark, but something about her seemed to have interested him. She felt the rare current of attraction pulling at her. "The pleasure is all mine," she whispered, patting him on the shoulder and bringing her hands down his arms, casting them to the side.

She didn't usually enjoy her job. She enjoys the money, enjoyed the free drinks when she wasn't on the wagon, enjoys dancing and the flexibility... but she generally didn't enjoy the men. Not when they're always staring, always on her, _always_ wanting more than she can give. Sometimes she feels bad for them, and that's almost bearable, and rarely they're attractive or she isn't disgusted by them, but these men are few and far between. Bridget knew from the way Andrew squirmed, that she was going to enjoy it just a bit too much. She knew from taking one look at him that he was the sort of man who always had to be in control. He was uncomfortable with her touching him, and a part of her relished having that sort of power over him, the precise sort of man who'd always had control over her, always made her do things she didn't want to do. It didn't hurt that he was cute either.

Bridget lightly planted her hands on his knees, bending down and coaxing his surprisingly unwilling legs wider apart. Andrew's breathing sped up minutely. It had been a long time since someone had touched him there, so lightly. He was wound up already, and she hadn't even done anything sexual. Their eyes met, and she saw that his eyes were dark and unyielding. "Afraid I'm going to steal your virtue?" she teased, lips curling into an amused smile. She arched her back, bending forward to give him an even better view of her breasts, and then she lightly dragged her nails up his thighs, teasing him. Her touch turned him to jello below the waist, tensing and shaking just a little but looking forward to every moment.

Her hands continued their path up his chest, warm palms pressing firmly into his shirt. His breathing approached raggedness. Bridget smiled to herself, enjoying the feeling of a warm, strong man under her hands, yet a man who trembles minutely when she touches him. Her thumbs traced the lines of his abdominal muscles, muscles that tensed and contracted under her touch. Andrew tried to clench his jaw and pretend he was unaffected, but she outmaneuvered him, hands rubbing his shoulder blades with an unexpected and painful tenderness. His wife would never touch him like that again, not if she could help it.

She twisted towards him, rolling her body so that her breasts almost brushed against his face. Once more, she leaned in close enough so that her lips almost brushed his ear. He could sense her tongue in the air by the shell of his ear. "That's a sexy accent you've got. Where're you from, Andrew?" she asked in a low liquid voice that made something inside of him burn. Her fingers fleetingly touched the back of his neck before she turned away abruptly, her hair hitting his face. Her hands found his knees once more, pushing his legs further apart. She rocked her hips rhythmically from side to side and up and down like an infinity sign, providing him with better and better views of her perfectly-formed ass and waist.

It had been well over a year since he'd seen his wife's backside. Andrew tried not to think about his wife, but the comparisons were inevitable. The girl who stood in front of him was lithe and thinner than she probably ought to be. He could count her vertebrae and saw her ribs every time she stretched or twisted a bit too far. She didn't look fully healthy, but, then, she wasn't skin and bones either. She peered over her shoulder at him, giving him a coy smile, the kind his wife never gave him anymore. She gave him the same smile she gave everyone, the polite, fake smile that never reached her eyes. It felt foreign to speak, but he surprised himself by answering her. "Cardiff. Wales."

"Exotic." She raised her brows, as if this interested her, and she dropped to a squat, spreading her legs apart and more or less shaking her ass in his direction. Andrew tried to look away, uncomfortable with the display and its overt sexuality. His stomach had started twisting with some pain akin to longing or nausea. For what it was worth, Bridget really did think his accent was terribly sexy. It seemed as if she'd fallen into some sort of other world where sophisticated men like himself came to dives like this and let her dance for them. He was probably a big tipper too.

Then she started to rise back up to her full height, rolling her spine and arching her back toward him on her way back up. She cast him a sultry look over her shoulder, winking at him before turning away, hips swaying. Andrew found it impossible to filter out all the sounds and flashing track lights of the club, let alone the crude shouts and cheers of his business associates. He felt dirty, so he could only imagine how bad it must be for the stripper, who had to put up with such comments on a daily basis. He sat there stock-still, not quite turned on by the show but not wholly unaffected by it either; he was, at the very least, intrigued. He owed it to the poor girl to let her try her best, he supposed, given how hard she was working.

"Not very talkative, huh?" Chuckling to herself, Bridget backed up a bit, outstretching her arms and curving her back until her hands hit his thighs. He very nearly jumped; she felt his muscles tense up like he was going to buck her off and then settle. She didn't have to look back to see the embarrassed look on his face; she'd caught him off-guard, apparently. Andrew felt some of his blood drain south, though the rush of lightheadedness did chase Siobhan from his mind, at least temporarily. She gyrated towards him slowly, rotating her hips until the weight of her body was suspended tightly over his. "You like that?" she asked in a breathy voice, glancing back at him. Her hands squeezed his thigh muscles, causing him to elicit a faint grunt.

Bridget smiled to herself, pleased to finally get a reaction. She knew now that he liked it, even if he didn't say a damn thing. Her lips are so full and berry red; they twist wickedly and taunt him worse than even his wife's lips. She rubbed her fingers against his thighs, getting a feel for both the expensive, heavy fabric and the firm muscle beneath. Her hips moved in circles, like the orbit of a planet, body hovering just over his, just enough so that they aren't touching but that he can feel the coolness of the air circulating on his clothes. She kept moving in closer, coming in further and further until her back is pressing against his chest. She tilted her head just a little to the side, resting the side of her face against his and making the most wanton expression she could.

She'd meant to keep her eyes open and heavy-lidded, but her eyes closed the moment she'd pressed her cheek against his and felt a spark she hadn't expected. She tried to write it off as merely the shock of his stubble scratching her face, but his cheek is so much smoother than she expected. Honestly, she was surprised he hadn't recoiled from the touch, as uncomfortable as it was. Most men did, if she ever bothered to press her face against their faces; _that_ kind of contact seemed to repulse them. It was nice to just relax a moment and enjoy an innocent touch, her hot cheek pressed against his cool jaw, to feel like she was a normal person. It was rare to get that sort of intimacy in the club.

Andrew had previously been watching her from the corners of his eyes, trying not to get caught up in it, but he'd wound up watching the expression on her face with rapt attention: eyes closed, head thrown back, hair falling into her face, lips parted. Logically, he knows she gets paid to look like that, to act like she's enjoying it (just like his wife, he supposes), but it has been so long since he's seen that expression on a woman's face, much less Siobhan's face, that he can't help but wonder if it's more. She was so close to him that the heathery smell of her hair was all around him, reminding him of the moors and heaths of his childhood. She was so close, in fact, that he could smell the scent rising off of her skin: musky and exotic, faintly floral yet with an edge.

One of her hands came off of his thigh, twining itself around the back of his neck, giving her a bit more leverage. He didn't start quite as much when he felt her hand on the back of his neck, fingers burrowing into his hair, coiling the short strands. Then her hips shifted to an up-and-down motion, drawing away and coming back down close enough that her ass almost brushed the front of his pants. So close yet so far away. His body strained to reach her, tensing to get closer, something he feels very ashamed about, but the hand on his thigh kept him pressed firmly down into his seat. He knew the club's rules about touching; he was powerless to do anything but sit there and take it.

His eyes closed briefly, enjoying the feeling of her back rubbing against his chest, wishing a bit traitorously that his shirt was a little more unbuttoned. It's been so long since he's felt someone's skin, someone's back against him. For one moment, he allowed himself to forget about the club's other patrons, to forget that this woman isn't his wife, that she isn't really interested in him. She scratched the back of his neck, and his eyes slowly opened to see the curtain of her hair separating them. "Who is she?" Bridget murmured, sensing his mind was elsewhere from the cloudy, unfocused look in his eyes. Andrew barely had time to blink before she continued, licking her lips, "The woman you're really thinking about."

He shrugged. She's caught his eye, meeting his stare and refusing to back down as few have managed, including those far more skilled and wealthy than she is. It made him feel more (un)comfortable than he expected, that a mere stripper could look at him like that, like she knows everything about him. His wife didn't even look at him like that anymore, if she ever had. He didn't want to say his wife's name though, just like he didn't want to admit that he'd been thinking about her more or less all day since she'd told him in an all-too-brief phone conversation that she wasn't coming. But something in her eyes compels him the way his wife's eyes don't (because even he knows she doesn't really care to know that much about him anymore), and he found himself answering her anyway. "My wife," he mumbled shortly, gritting his teeth.

Bridget saw the way his brow furrowed, the way his face tightened as if his wife was a sensitive and unpleasant subject for him. She winds up talking about men's wives a lot more than said wives would probably expect, in both this and the off-the-books jobs she's ashamed of taking. He looked as if he'd aged five years before her eyes just thinking about her, and Bridget found herself feeling sorry for him. She slid down against him slowly, taking her time until she'd seated herself in his lap.

Siobhan was far from Andrew's mind. His breaths had gotten just the slightest bit shallower. Bridget's fingers tapped along to the beat on the nape of his neck as she shifted her hips and rubbed her ass against him lightly with a deliberate slowness that set his blood on a low boil. The hand that remained on his thigh, searing through his suit, slipped down the inside of his thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. She smiled to herself, feeling him start and surge a little beneath her. Andrew groaned, biting down on his lip and terribly glad her hand was concealed from his "buddies'" sight. Her thumb rested a little too close to the joint where thigh met pelvis. "Enjoying yourself?" she inquired knowingly.

Andrew was swearing compulsively under his breath, irritated at the reaction he was having. He was a little annoyed that he wasn't above this, these cheap carnal temptations. He was also clenching his jaw and actually looked quite angry, a fact that hadn't escaped Bridget's notice. Her permanently-smiling lips turned down slightly at the corners. She rose from his lap, hips swirling, hair flying through the air, changing colors when different lights illuminated her body. She stood in front of him, bending to one side and then the other, fingers trailing down her own legs two at a time, teasing.

The only thing that was worse than having her in his lap was _not_ having her in his lap. He was trying his best to hide the reaction he was having to her presence and proximity, but it was nearly impossible with her twisting and rolling in front of him like that, peeking over her shoulder to smirk at him. Their eyes met for an oddly intense moment, which was broken when her gaze dropped rather pointedly to his lap. Bridget's smile remained intact as she pivoted left on one foot, draping her right leg over his so one of his legs was wedged between both of hers. Her knee pressed against the seat of his chair, uncomfortably close to his groin.

She noticed his eyes running over her in a way they hadn't before, the way men's eyes usually did, and it kind of disappointed her, but she tried not to let it show. Andrew noticed the way the lingerie fit, the way the satin clung to her skin, the way the bright color highlighted the relative fairness of her skin. He liked that she looked like a real person, not disproportionate or unnatural as some of the others. Maybe it was because she seemed so tiny and delicate, or maybe it was because she looked like his wife, and he was extremely uncomfortable imagining his wife in a place like this, taking her clothes off for other men for money. Either way, she didn't belong here in a place like this. He was utterly certain of that.

Bridget played with the lace of the negligee, pulling it up over her hips, teasing him by flashing the bare skin of her stomach. Andrew stared at her knickers for longer than he'd intended, transfixed by the combination of satin and lace with the tiny little bow. She brought a hand across her stomach, shifting toward him. He tore his eyes away from her hips, feeling uncomfortable and ashamed at how quickly he was cataloging that his hands would span those hips just perfectly. Bridget dragged her breasts up and across his chest, pulling away quickly, as if she'd been burned. She'd felt him straining against the confines of the shirt, and she gave him a blazing look. His throat felt strangely dry as he stared longingly at the bared column of her neck.

She swiveled her hips, slowly twisting closer to his leg. Bridget leaned forward to play with the tie he'd loosened earlier, loosening it further and turning it in her fingers. She tugged on the tie, using it to pull him so close to her that their noses were nearly touching. There were less than two inches between them, and she found that he smelled like whiskey and a subtle but expensive cologne she'd always found particularly irresistible. His eyes were wide at the closeness, but he found that he was disturbingly at ease with his current position, especially when her hand caressed his cheek. He stunned himself by leaning into her touch instinctively, like a cat being stroked. It had to be that her resemblance to his wife and willingness to touch him was mixing him up.

Bridget smiled indulgently, keeping her cool hand on his cheek for a few moments than she probably needed. Then she slowly released his tie, smoothing it with her hands enough to make Andrew even more flustered. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks unbidden. Andrew hated blushing; it was one of those things he liked to pretend he didn't do, something he thought he'd gotten over once he'd escaped puberty. He hated feeling like a teenager with a crush. She hovered just above his leg for a few tantalizing moments, briefly caressing his cheek with her thumb. Andrew turned his head far enough so that his lips nearly caught her finger. He would have if she hadn't taken her hand away a second after he made contact.

She shook that hand as if she'd been burned before once again placing both hands on his chest. Bridget then ran both hands down his chest, going a bit lower than she probably should've, taking the time to feel his muscles flexing underneath the white starched fabric. "Feels nice," she observed in a breathy voice, lips just above his throat. Andrew was breathing heavier, and, concordantly, so was she. Bridget was probably a bit more turned on by the whole thing than was actually healthy. She let out a long breath, throwing her hair back and lowering herself all the way down onto his leg.

Her crotch rested on the middle of his thigh, burning a hole through his pants. Her hips kept circling, jerking from side to side and front to back. They began to twist and turn with a vengeance as she tightened her thigh's grip around his leg, closing out the others. Andrew bit down so hard on his bottom lip that he tasted iron. Bridget put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward and lifting her knee off of the chair to brush deliberately against his growing erection. He barely stifled a very loud groan as she grinned at him, lightly removing her knee from his lap. Andrew felt like a goddamned thirteen-year-old, no longer in control of his body, and he hated it. Even the stripper was like his wife, taking control away from him.

She was a little breathless herself. Rubbing against this stranger's leg was affecting her more than usual. Truthfully, she didn't normally touch her clients this much or this directly since it was a club with a no-touching rule, and it wasn't exactly something she was dying to do if she didn't have to. Bridget took a step back, reminding herself why getting too involved was a bad idea. All men, even regulars, get sick of the tease eventually, and they either take it too far or leave.

Andrew was trying very hard and very unsuccessfully to not think about her rubbing against him, trying not to strain those muscles to feel every minute motion of her slick hips, the way the smooth satin glides across his pants. He stilled when she stepped back and away from him, tossing her hair, chest heaving a little, face flushed. If he didn't know better, he'd almost swear she was blushing too. Bridget, for her part, regarded him with a bit of trepidation, chewing on her lip. She was getting a bit carried away, and she knew it. He was not for her.

Then, however, something flashed in his eyes, something primal and angry, and her entire insides tightened. She nudged his legs a bit closer together with her knees, looking him dead in the eyes as she straddled his lap. She ignored the hoots and hollers of his companions, draping her arms loosely around his neck and sliding forward gradually. Andrew's eyes closed briefly when he felt her breath on his face. Bridget edged forward on his lap inch by inch, dragging herself against him, twisting from side to side until her chest pressed against his. She laced her fingers together around the back of his neck, finding a better, more cozy position in his lap, locking her thighs around him. Andrew broke the stare then, unable to look at her when she was so close. He gazed blankly at some point over her shoulder, a guarded, unemotional expression on his face that didn't conceal the great effort that expression required of him.

Bridget sighed and moved closer still, almost embracing him. For a moment, she merely sat there in his lap, unmoving, getting used to the position. She was sitting just on top of his erection, and she almost felt him, hot and hard, through the layers of clothes. It pained her to think of how close they were. It pained Andrew for an entirely different reason, the feelings and the motions so familiar and yet... so different. Then she moved her hips, fitting over him like a bottle cap. She jerked her hips forward, deliberately rocking against him, feeling him swell further against his pants, against her. It felt pretty good, she thought, letting out a half-strangled noise that wasn't meant to come out at all because she wasn't actually supposed to be enjoying this.

Andrew stared at her in amazement. His wife had made noises _just_ like that once upon a time, noises he only heard now in his dreams and memories. She smiled at him lazily, eyes half-lidded like she was actually enjoying it, grinding up on him faster and faster. She leaned forward, arching her back a bit more and rubbing her breasts against his chest once more. Bridget removed her hands from the back of his neck, hands skimming over his arms, lightly squeezing the taut muscles there until she was holding both of his hands in her own. She smiled at him softly, and then she pulled his hands forward and placed them on her waist, pressing her stomach flush against his.

She was still gyrating her pelvis against his, enjoying the way he shuddered just a little bit, the way he probably ached to move against her but refrained out of delicacy or respect or something else entirely. He held his hips down rigidly, even though she felt them jerk against her a bit. She groaned a bit at the momentary friction. His hands stayed on her waist, strengthening their grasp when she released them. His breathing was ragged but soft, so that she heard it only when she was facing him. He told himself it wasn't real, but... he wanted it to be, wanted it to be this easy with his actual wife, so badly he could taste it. Andrew turned his head to the side, resting his cheek against hers so he didn't have to look at her and know the truth. She pulled her head back, whipping her hair in his face, looking at him with those searing dark green eyes.

Bridget rocked her hips with an agonizing slowness, shifting backwards, curving her spine away from him so that he got a better view of her chest as she writhed, and she got some more air. Then she surged forward, looking up at him and sliding a hand into her hair. Andrew swallowed hard as she tossed her hair, running her other hand down his chest. She rolled her hips against his, jerking her hips down in circles, riding him, trying to get as close as possible. She seemed to be going in for a kiss up until she turned to the side a few inches shy of his face. His brain was so addled by lust that he probably would've let her kiss him if she'd wanted to. He felt the vibrations from her giggles on his neck. "So damn hot," she muttered, nuzzling his throat and meaning it. One of her lips touched the side of his throat for an instant, setting his every nerve ending on fire.

Andrew was a lot closer than he would've liked, given that all of this was the result of a random woman who happened to look like an exact replica of his wife. He could probably take a bit more, but not a lot more of this personal attention, and he wanted to get away from the club's prying eyes so he could breathe and regain what was left of his sanity. He tried in vain to remember her name, but he'd forgotten it a while ago when he'd started mentally comparing her to his wife. He somehow found his voice as her hips crashed against his with a particular ferocity. "Is there some place... private... we can go?" he grunted, half panting, stilling her hips and leaning back a little to get a proper look at her.

The firmness of his hands on her hips took her by surprise. She stopped moving and smiled down at him beatifically, and the light hit her in such a way that she looked like an angel. It had been ages since Siobhan had looked at him so adoringly. She nodded slowly, running a hand through her hair, still breathless and a bit flustered. Bridget licked her dry lips. God, she was glad he'd said that. "Sure." She knew what going to a private room with him would mean, and she was perfectly prepared to accept that. This club had rules, unlike some of the other clubs she used to work at, but she was so wound up she'd probably jump him for free. She gestured beyond him, towards the back. "We've got VIP rooms back there, but it'll cost you," she told him with a wry smile.

Secretly, she hoped that her guess was correct, and money wasn't an issue for him, because she wanted some one-on-one time with him more than he probably wanted to be alone with her. Andrew nodded, feeling a bit of the bloodflow return to his brain. "That'll be fine," he mumbled distractedly, thinking that he would pay whatever sum, any sum she named, just to have his wife look at him like that again. He had no idea what would happen when he was alone with the woman, had no idea really what he even wanted to happen. He just knew he'd be content looking at her and pretending. Bridget's smile widened, and she slowly drew back from him, taking his hand.

She was beginning to extricate herself from Andrew's lap when she felt a tapping on her shoulder. She turned to face whomever it was, an irritated retort ready, when she saw that it was the gentleman friend who'd set this all up in the first place. Her lips formed into a tight, fake smile, something that Andrew noticed. He'd had to stifle a laugh seeing her look at Glen like she wished he'd just drop off the face of the planet. Glen gave her an indulgent, self-satisfied smile, taking out his wallet. Neither Bridget nor Andrew especially liked the way he was checking her out. "Thanks for helping my friend out," Glen said, holding out two fifty-dollar bills to her.

"Thank _you_," she replied politely, eying the money. He peered at her clothing a bit awkwardly, like he was trying to figure out where he should stick the bills, but Bridget smiled gratefully and snatched them right out of his hand, stuffing them in her bra before he could touch her. "No problem. It was my pleasure," Bridget drawled in a sultry voice, glancing down at the man whose lap she was still occupying, offering him a half-smile that lasted a few moments too long. Andrew sort of returned the smile, showing a dimple that made something inside of her give way. She patted Andrew's shirt, smoothing his clothes a bit maternally, enjoying being able to run her hands over his chest. "And his too, of course."

She snapped her attention back to Glen, who looked a bit put out by her distractedness. Bridget offered him a somewhat flirtatious smile, even though it repulsed her to do it. Then again, she'd done a lot of things that repulsed her in this life. She knew his type too. He was, unfortunately, a bit of a regular who made his rounds with the girls. Some of her friends had said she was next in his sights, and this seemed to be true. He always tried for more with the strippers. The only reason he hadn't been kicked out was because of his money. "He's lucky to have friends like you," she chirped in the most sugary tone she could muster.

Andrew snorted, but he actually did owe Glen for this one. He reached into his own suit pocket, finding his wallet before Glen could try any other bright ideas. Though Andrew did not typically carry large amounts of money on his person, as he didn't want to invite robbers, he'd made a bit of an exception for tonight. He folded up two hundreds and a fifty, brushing aside the mostly-transparent negligee and reaching up to slide the bills into the waistband of her panties. His fingers flicked against her warm skin and lingered a moment longer than they ought to against her skin, and Bridget glanced back at him, lips parted, eyes hungry. She managed a moment later to tear her eyes away from his to see how much money he'd slipped into her waistband. She raised her brows at the tip, unused to such generosity, and smiled at him, climbing off his lap very, very slowly. "Thank you, Andrew," she murmured softly, touching his arm lightly.

Glen looked between them, wondering what he was missing. "I've never seen him like this before," he remarked seemingly to Bridget, who paid him very little attention. She was staring at Andrew, grinning like an idiot, partially because she'd just received almost five hundred dollars for a ten-minute dance and was certain to receive more in a few minutes for doing something she was pretty damn sure she'd actually enjoy.

She tugged on his hand, pulling him up, watching him adjust himself and pick up his things wordlessly. Those of Andrew's business associates who weren't more pleasantly occupied were gaping at him in disbelief as he followed the smiling girl to one of the back rooms. It was so unlike the staid, by-the-book businessman they knew. "Man, Martin's got all the luck," Glen grumbled, half-regretting paying for the dance. Although he supposed it could be used against him for leverage or to make Andrew a more pleasant person to be around.

"Did you see that girl? She was so hot for him. He is _so_ getting lucky," Charlie, one of Andrew's younger coworkers said, a bit in awe and a bit in envy, watching the door close behind the couple. He also had never seen this side of his boss, had never even known it existed, but it was comforting to see that even the great and terrifying Andrew Martin was a mere mortal, attracted to a pretty girl dancing on him same as the rest of them.


	2. That's Not Lip Service

So here's where we get into Andrew asking Bridget for a favor, and this chapter is a monster. It's also probably not as good as the last chapter, I'm a little sorry for that, but hey, quality control... It's also a little talkie and probably definitely not as sexy as you're expecting (even though the title sounds sexually suggestive, and the fact that I was able to resist making a really bad sex pun there says something good about my mental state, I hope... but, I mean, really, you think Andrew's gonna put out so soon, even when they're alone?), but it says a lot about Andrew and Bridget's different mentalities and kind of who they are as people in this story, which is pretty similar to who they are in general. You get a bit more of Bridget's perspective in this one. And you see them start to open up to each other a bit more, a trend which will hopefully continue over the course of the next chapters.

Incidentally, I have discovered, sadly, that there are no actual strip clubs in Lake Tahoe, and that the nearest ones are like, 45 minutes away or in Reno. There are just online stripper-for-hire companies, and I personally find that kind of stripper a bit sleazier since they come to you and do some things that club strippers don't and whatnot. And there is a large hotness variation there. And, while I could have this story set in Reno, it kind of ruins the whole it being where Andrew met Siobhan thing, so, yeah, while I try for as much accuracy as possible... it, alas, is not possible. Also, I think Nevada clubs are topless only, which would make one of Bridget's offers a bit illegal or something, but whatever. I can only know/care so much about strippers and strip club laws.

I'm not super crazy about the ending, and maybe I'll take a second pass on it and repost this if I do and if I feel like it's worth it to me, but now I've been circling this drain for entirely too many days, and I just want to be done with this chapter.

Anyway, you also get a peek at some other characters at the strip club in this chapter, even though it's mostly Andrew and Bridget along in the champagne room. I can also say that Shaylene and our favorite FBI guy may be making appearances in future chapters, though I have yet to even start writing the next chapter. Incidentally, I suppose I should say that Bridget still lives with Shaylene, and, well... I dunno if Machy's still on Bodaway's case or not. Either way it's not very important to me, so meh. I'm kind of flying without a safety net here, so I don't entirely know where this story is going or when I'm going to update next and whatnot, but I'll try my best to juggle this and my other responsibilities. Oy.

And, finally, I don't own Ringer, but I do own the nonexistent Lake Tahoe strip club, which certainly has a better name than Harry's Fun Room or Club Caged, Frank the bouncer, and any other personages you may not recognize. I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor. May they be sweet. Incidentally, some reviews would also be pretty sweet. Just sayin'. Thanks everybody!

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><p>The private rooms had doors that shut all the way but didn't lock. Surprisingly, the rooms didn't have cameras inside them, though each door had a large glass pane in the middle of it that allowed bouncers, bartenders, and other passerby to see what was going on inside. The rooms were dark, though, and it was easier than one would think to get around that if one was creative enough. Andrew paid the two hundred dollar fee for the room as if it were nothing, giving the bouncer fifty dollars and ordering a bottle of very expensive whiskey while Bridget gaped at him. Then again, he'd tipped her two-fifty for a lap dance, so she supposed that much really was nothing to him but pocket change. She hadn't thought he was actually <em>that<em> wealthy.

She stood waiting for him in the doorway of the room when he entered with the bottle and a glass. She saw that his hands were shaking a little. He had nice hands, too: large, warm, and soft with half-moon fingernails. She remembered the feeling of them on her waist, wanting suddenly to feel those hands all over her. Her hands were also shaking a bit, but that was more from withdrawal and the temptation of being all alone in a room with a man and a bottle of the club's finest Scotch. He set the bottle on the conveniently-placed table in the middle of the room and looked up at her, suddenly shy. "You don't mind if I have a few drinks, do you?" he asked a bit nervously, clearly needing the alcohol for reassurance.

Bridget tried to smile at him genuinely but it came off a bit tight. She wanted so badly to wrap her lips around that bottle and suck the Scotch down until she forgot what she was doing here. Drinking helped calm her nerves; the buzz that washed over her was a comfortable, familiar feeling, an old friend. She knew that was a crock, and that it didn't really make her feel better—it made her comfortably numb—but the desire for a drink was a compulsion she still had trouble shaking. The old Bridget wouldn't have fought it; she'd just have reached out and thrown the drink back without thinking, regardless of whether it was hers or not, like a reflex. Every day was still a struggle, but she'd changed. "By all means," she managed, gesturing for him to pour himself a glass. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, waiting for him to sit down so she could join him. She needed to do _something_ soon to get her mind off the whiskey she could smell halfway across the room.

Andrew was feeling uncertain now that he was in the room all alone with her and the sultry song that surrounded them. He hadn't planned anything and didn't even know what one was supposed to do in such a circumstance. He poured himself a few fingers' worth of whiskey and threw it back with a deft flick of the wrist, feeling a little bit better as the alcohol tickled his throat. He almost smiled distractedly at the girl and managed to sit down on the room's large wrap-around couch. Bridget relaxed a little and pulled the useless negligee over her head, tossing it to the ground happily. Andrew blinked up at her, surprised and speechless.

She smiled at him flirtatiously and sashayed over to him, squeezing in next to him on the couch. "You know, I was hoping we'd get some time alone together," she drawled, leaning into him, hand sliding up his chest. He'd poured himself another glass and was sipping it blithely, though he froze and swallowed hard, almost choking on his drink, when she touched him. Bridget could smell the sweet, delicious alcohol on him and had half a mind to kiss him just for the taste, but she somehow managed to hold herself back. She didn't want him to bolt, after all. "Now, tell me, what's a guy like you doing in a dive like this?" she demanded with a wry smile, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, walking two fingers down his arm.

He tensed and then relaxed, shrugging. "I don't know." Honestly, Andrew had no idea what he was still doing here. Strip clubs really weren't his thing, and he'd never have thought that he would take it this far, half-giving into some half-assed attraction just because she looked exactly like his wife. But here he was, and he had to figure out what to do about it. Bridget sidled in closer to him, inhaling the sweet smell of whiskey mixing with the musky, manly aroma of his faded cologne. He glanced at her, trying to quell his nerves. How was it that he could be so confident and in charge around other people every day of his life, but when it was just him and a woman, a mere stripper who resembled his wife, he couldn't get a damn word out?

He had that problem with Siobhan too; he was never saying the right thing to her, always wrong. Andrew sighed, leaning back into the seat and trying not to grimace as he thought about that. "Forgive me," he said wearily, pinching his nose. He almost immediately regretted saying that because it felt too much like he was asking that of his wife. Andrew wasn't sure she'd ever forgive him for anything, no matter how many times and how many different ways he asked. He glanced up at Bridget, giving her an apologetic closed-mouth smile. "I'm rubbish at this sort of thing. I don't really do small talk," he explained a bit sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He stopped when he accidentally brushed her arm, making the fine hairs on it stand on edge.

Bridget pulled her legs up on the seat with her, leaning them against his slightly. Andrew barely glanced at her long, bare legs, but he still looked at them a bit longer than he should've. She smiled at him reassuringly, and her eyes were so big and bright and green that it hurt to look at them. "It's okay," she told him, placing her other hand on his arm, right by the crook of his elbow. He gazed at her warily, not quite trusting her or the touch. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to," she murmured huskily, turning onto her knees toward him, hands on both shoulders, more or less pinning him to the wall.

"There are definitely better things we could be doing," she muttered half under her breath, casting a naughty smile in his direction. She ran her gaze down his body deliberately, taking him in from head to toe, and Andrew swallowed hard. The alcohol was not helping. Gazing at him with molten green eyes, the seductress took a hand off of his shoulder, hooking a thumb under one of her bra straps teasingly. She twisted it in her fingers as if impatient.

Siobhan had never been so brazen or self-confident, never so open or self-aware, which had suited him. After Catherine, he didn't want to be married to another flashy, easily-combustible dynamo. At the time, Siobhan had been just what he'd needed: stable, civil, content to leave him to his own devices. In his more romantic days, Andrew had liked to compare her to a diamond: sharp, tough (hard, he amended), brilliant, and compact, radiating but not leaking light, a precious jewel that only the trained eye could fully appreciate. Cool, collected, capable, committed, calculating: these were all words typically used to describe Siobhan, and the woman so close to him was the exact opposite of that. It was a more refreshing change than he would've been willing to admit.

He'd used to like how reserved, contained, and mysterious she was until he woke up one day and realized that he barely knew her. He didn't understand what had happened to make the both of them this way. Now, he was willing to shell out hundreds of dollars just to know what she was thinking. "What would you like to do?" she asked, leaning over so that some of her hair fell onto his shoulder. She saw his eyes drop to her breasts for a few moments before, caught like a schoolboy, he looked away and stared resolutely into space.

How was it that she even seemed to have the same size breasts as his wife? How was everything about her so perfectly proportioned that his whole being was screaming at him that this woman _had_ to be his wife? That otherwise it was too good to be true? Except he knew, of course, that she wasn't his wife; Siobhan didn't bother to flirt with him anymore unless she was putting on a show for someone. He was her trophy husband: rich, successful, attractive, educated, perfectly trained and well-behaved. A grimace passed over Andrew's face at the thought, and Bridget sighed. He'd seemed like he was into it earlier when she was on top of him, but now it seemed like he was in a darker place.

She bit her lip, watching him carefully. She had to think of a way to phrase this delicately so that she didn't scare him off since he seemed to be unaccustomed to physical touch. She forced a little smile, straightening her aching spine and trying to catch his gaze. "You've got me all to yourself, Andrew," she said suggestively, squeezing his shoulder, which got him to turn and look at her as if he'd just remembered that she existed. He blinked, seeing Siobhan before his eyes, coyly flirting with him only to cruelly snatch the hope away from him. Bridget hinged forward on her knees, placing her other hand on his other shoulder for support. "I'll do whatever you want," she promised, leaning in close to his face and maintaining eye-contact.

A pained look appeared on his face, a result of the bitter realization that his own wife had never made such a selfless offer. How could he _ever_ mistake this woman for his wife? Yet a stripper, a woman he _paid_ to be interested in him, was actually more willing to consider his own needs. He slumped forward a little, looking at his shoes, feeling lower than dirt. It was **pathetic** that he couldn't get his own wife to be interested, let alone that he had to give a woman money to pay him any attention. He wasn't that sort of guy, never had been, so how did he get to this point? He turned away from Bridget, sighing and thinking to himself that this whole thing had been a mistake. He had more intimacy with a stripper than he did with his own wife, and he didn't even care for strippers. Clearly he needed to examine his life and figure out where everything went wrong.

Bridget reached out and turned his head back to face hers, actually rather concerned at how silent he was being. It was like he'd gone somewhere else entirely. She'd seen him like this earlier, brooding into space and ignoring his surroundings. It had intrigued her, really, had been a bit of a novelty. He had to be the most miserable-looking straight man she'd ever seen at the club in all her years stripping. She bent down to his ear, lips faintly brushing against his cheek. "Tell you what, Andrew, I'll take all my clothes off and give you a lap dance. That sound good?" she breathed, feeling hot all over at the mere prospect. She was already starting to clamber into his lap, hand coming off his chin to twist around her back, groping for the tiny hooks that held her bra together. She didn't really enjoy naked lap dances much due to the friction and being completely bare and vulnerable before a stranger's gaze, but she was willing to make an exception here. Something told her he was afraid of the same thing.

She'd already begun to undo her bra when he suddenly snapped to attention and turned, pushing her firmly back into her seat, pushing her off and away with a surprising amount of force. "That won't be necessary," he said coolly, jaw tightening. Bridget blinked up at him owlishly, pushing herself up on her elbows. Her bra was half-unfastened, hanging by just a single hook. Had he just refused a naked lap dance? She'd never met a man who would turn down a naked girl in his lap, and it intrigued her all the more. It was a nice change, meeting a man who wasn't all over her, and it made her want him like she didn't usually want a client. He stretched forward to reach his drink, neatly tossing back the rest of the glass, and she marveled at his extension.

Bridget sat up, observing him and trying to figure out her next move. It was rare that she had to think much on the job. It was easier not to think because once she started thinking, she started _feeling_ things, things like shame and guilt and disgust and hatred and self-respect. It was easy to move her body and execute the moves like an automaton the same way she did every time. As for the men themselves, they didn't require much thought. They didn't ask many questions. They just asked her for dances, which she gave them, and then they poured their hearts out to her, regardless of whether or not she actually wanted to hear it. All she had to do was get them off and pretend to listen like she actually cared about what they were saying, stroking their egos just enough so that they thought she meant it, easy as pie.

But this guy was different, obviously. She moved towards him so that the side of her body was pressed against his, her bare thigh against his expensive slacks. It was a silk-wool blend, if she wasn't mistaken. She edged closer to him, trying again. This time she placed her hand high on his thigh, gently so as to avoid scaring him off. She needed a precise, cautious approach with a big fish like this, one who was apparently at least somewhat impervious to her stripper charms, or she'd spook him and he'd go off on her, shouting things about how she didn't understand the meaning of the word "no" and just wanted his money, and he wasn't into that sort of thing and didn't need a common stripper to get him off, thank you very much.

"You can touch me anywhere you want," Bridget cooed, lightly tracing the curve of her breast. She felt cheap as she said it, and she'd never said that before to anyone ever, but it was just as well because Andrew remained impervious. "Or I could touch _you_..." Her touch was so light, in fact, that, lost in his thoughts, Andrew didn't even notice. Bridget moved a bit closer, delicately sliding her hand down the side of his leg and over the inseam of his trousers. Andrew finally looked up, startled, once she palmed his crotch. For a moment, he was speechless, uncomfortable, disgusted, more aroused than he was willing to contemplate let alone admit, and a thousand other things he couldn't even form into coherent thoughts. Then, still stunned, he turned to glare at her. She didn't move her hand, though, because he couldn't make his glare work the way it usually did.

He was forced to grab her hand and remove it, tossing it away from him. When was the last time he'd grabbed his actual wife's hand, he pondered gloomily. Bridget blinked at him, confused, holding her hand to her chest as if it had hurt. It had hurt her ego, she supposed, being rejected by this man who'd chosen and paid for time in this room with her, all alone. Maybe she'd gotten her hopes up a little bit, had expected something more than this. She stared at him for a moment, perplexed by the way he was gazing into space, palms flat on the red leather, deep in thought. Now that she thought about it and had a rather decent look at him, she noticed that there was something almost sad about him, some longing that radiated from him, like he wished he was somewhere else with someone else.

This was not a wholly unfamiliar feeling to Bridget. She'd often wished the same thing, hadn't she? And how many men had she seen, brokenhearted, in love, gay, and so on, whose hearts hadn't been into it? She relaxed, leaning into the booth, secure in her knowledge. "You're still in love with your wife," she proclaimed like a prophetess (not a prostitute), not taking her eyes off of him. Andrew jerked out of his thoughts, turning abruptly to face her, a slightly guilty look on his face. The astonishment written all over his features confirmed her suspicions. He'd bristled a bit at the mention of his wife, so Bridget gave him a pitying smile. Andrew looked away, unwilling to see that expression on her face, so similar to the mocking smile his wife gave him. "Want to talk about it?" Bridget suggested cautiously, watching him carefully for any sign of a response.

Andrew shook his head. "No," he said blankly. It was bad enough that his wife had infiltrated his thoughts in a way she didn't when he was at home. He didn't need to talk about her to this doppleganger and make things even worse. His lips were tight, a thin, pale line, just one of many on his face. He scooted forward in the seat and picked up the bottle of Scotch, pouring himself another glass and throwing it back in one fluid motion.

Bridget frowned. This wasn't going at all as she'd thought it would. She crossed her arms on her chest, holding herself as erect as she possibly could. She cleared her throat, waiting for his attention. He didn't turn to acknowledge her, but she continued anyway. "Forgive me for being blunt," she began a bit hesitantly, reaching for his arm, "but you seem like the sort of guy who gets right to the point..." At this, Andrew set his empty glass down and turned suddenly to face her, intrigued. Bridget's mouth was still open, and, upon seeing that she actually had his attention, she was about to go on when he spoke.

His jaw had tightened a bit as he regarded her with hard eyes, holding his neck at a decidedly haughty angle. His eyes were hard but not quite judgmental, more like evaluative and impassive. "What sort of man do you take me for?" he demanded in a serious and very sober voice. He said it like a challenge, and he meant it as such, obviously. Andrew didn't think he was that transparent, so see-through that some stripper he'd barely met knew what kind of man he was. He crossed an arm over his chest, watching her expectantly, indicating that he wanted an answer.

Even the most complex men were a lot easier than they thought or admitted they were. She'd certainly earned a lot of money that way. Bridget had a knack of sizing a guy up in a glance, and hadn't she had plenty of looks at this pretty British gentleman to get a good measure of the man? Bridget sat back, crossing one leg languidly over the other and eying him contemplatively, running her eyes over him with a deliberate slowness so that she could catalogue each and every little detail for a better understanding.

He was neat, put together, fairly formal, which meant he'd probably been a stock broker once upon a time, and he worked in finance now, obviously, since he'd been hanging out with Glen and his cronies yet was obviously above them in both wealth and class. His clothes were expensive; the suit hand-tailored, the brightly-colored tie silk, judging by the sheen. He wore a lot of black for some reason; maybe he was mourning something, or maybe he thought himself dark by nature. Either way, the black went with his dour expression and sarcastic humor. The ties were a rare treat and splash of individuality. He looked so comfortable and effortless in the suit that she suspected he was uncomfortable in regular clothes and probably wore business casual unless he was sleeping. He also probably slept on his back and, being a bit prudish, wore a full-length shirt and pajama bottoms to bed.

Just by sizing him up, she could say that he probably also worked out at least once or twice a week at a private gym. If she had to guess, she'd say that he ran on a treadmill, probably knocked a punching bag around, and lifted weights occasionally. He likely worked out both to maintain his appearance and to get out the aggression and extra anxiety he thrived upon. She amended this to include a massage once a week or every two weeks and a sauna once in a while as well as a few games of squash or tennis a week with business partners. He probably also played golf but had no enthusiasm for it, preferring faster-paced games.

Andrew cleared his throat expectantly, snapping her out of her thoughts. She smiled at him faintly. Of course, none of that really mattered. What actually mattered was what kind of man he was. Her eyes settled on his hands, which were both half-clenched, even though he had nor reason to be angry. "You're the kind of guy who likes to be in control. You like to know everything," Bridget decided, still smiling. Self-made men were like that, and every neat and perfectly-in-place piece of him screamed that he loved order and control... but he didn't have as much as he wanted. He controlled and probably even micromanaged things like his business and clients, but the things that _really_ mattered to him in his life were outside of his control, and this irritated him to no end. He wouldn't go for a dominatrix-type, though she'd bet anything his wife was in charge of their relationship, whether he admitted it or not.

She tilted her head, watching his reaction. He clenched his fists as she'd expected, but he wore a bitter smile. It was hard to decipher the look on his face, hard to tell when he was angry. She got the feeling that he used rage as some kind of defense mechanism against feeling other things that were incompatible with his self-image... like vulnerability and confusion and sadness. He could control his anger; wrath made him strong, but other emotions made him weak and fractured. "But you don't trust anyone because you've been burned before," she said, frowning for him. His jaw tightened further, the twitching proving that she was right.

Still, he didn't motion for her to stop, and that was something, wasn't it?

Bridget smiled faintly, conspiratorially, leaning towards him, swinging her legs distractedly. Andrew was too busy staring darkly into space to notice. Bridget moved towards him, hesitantly reaching out for his shoulder. "You put on a good act, Andrew, pretending that you're cold and uncaring, but the problem is really that you care _too_ much... and most of the time you wish you didn't," she murmured as her hand finally made contact with his shoulder. He tried to shrug her off, but she held fast and firm, trying to soothe him. Andrew turned abruptly to look at her, eyes dark and shining with hurt. "Because it'd hurt less that way." That's when she knows she's really touched him. He didn't turn his eyes away from her, and she almost didn't want to continue profiling him, but she knew she needed to finish to gain his trust.

No matter what they say, strippers make most of their money from building rapport and pretending to listen, not taking their clothes off. She rubbed his shoulder lightly, and it was all Andrew could do not to lean into her touch, familiar and yet so unfamiliar. Her hands feel the same, maybe a little more calloused from circling the pole. "You can't just let things go. You take everything personally." He looked away then, realizing the truth of her words but trying to ignore it. His jaw tightened further. Bridget moved closer still, rubbing his shoulder soothingly, putting a bit more force behind it. "Still waters run deep, don't they, Andrew?" she asked, so close that she could rest her chin on top of her hand.

Andrew's eyes shut. Her face was so close to his that he could catch the faint aroma of lotion and shampoo, could almost feel her cheek against his. It sounded like something Siobhan would've said once upon a time, the sort of thing she only said now when under duress or mocking him. Maybe Siobhan had once understood the meaning of those words, just like she'd once understood him, or maybe she'd been pretending both times. He just didn't know anymore. Either way, it was easier to pretend when he closed his eyes and let this smoky voice wrap itself around him. "What you show the world is only the tip of the iceberg," Bridget continued, flicking the tip of his nose with her finger.

The illusion ruined, unable to imagine his wife ever doing such a thing, Andrew's eyes shot open. He jerked back finding Bridget only a few inches away from his face, form curled around him somewhat serpentinely. She quirked a smile at him, leaning forward just to see him cringe back. The smile didn't fall. "Problem is," she began, pressing her hands to both of his, "no one's ever wanted to see who you are beyond that."

She was eying him with such sympathy that he swallowed hard, embarrassed and somewhat disgusted. He couldn't decide if he was more disgusted that he was so transparent to some stripper he'd known for ten to fifteen minutes or if he was disgusted at her cheapness and that she pitied _him_. What she'd said had struck a cord in him, and he wondered how some woman he didn't know at all can see him for who he is so clearly when his wife, who should know him better than anyone, was scarcely more than a stranger nowadays. It hurt more that she was _right_, that no one actually wanted to know who he was underneath the expensive suits and the millions.

Bridget saw that maybe she should stop, saw the way his eyes softened, how his jaw went a little slack. But, for whatever reason, she couldn't stop. Something in her feels like she needs to go on and finish it. She watched him carefully, well aware that what she was about to say was maybe taking it a bit too far, that it would be a bit too personal... but wasn't that the most important part, the girl? She leaned in a little further, eyes locking with his. "You've been deeply hurt, scarred, by a woman in your life. A woman you loved more than _anything_ in the world. And you want nothing more than to fix it, but you don't think you can... and that breaks your heart," she pronounced sadly.

Her eyes are so mesmerizingly green and soft, looking at him the way she used to look at him, that he can't help but feel affected, can't help but want to give in a little. Next thing Andrew knew, he was pushing aside her hair, fingers flicking against her skin. His hand touched the bare skin of her shoulder and moved up to rest securely on the side and then the back of her neck. Her eyes widened a bit, and Andrew found himself turning towards her, moving in as if for a kiss. Realizing what he was doing and the absolute stupidity of it, Andrew stopped short, three inches from her lips. He didn't even know what he was doing here or what he was thinking, why he felt so emotional. He looked down, unable to look at that face and meet her gaze, but also unable to let go.

That was the entire problem with Siobhan, wasn't it? That he was incapable and unwilling to let her go, so that, in the end, neither of them could be free. Bridget was breathing a bit more heavily than she was accustomed to, guard raised a bit but staring unashamedly at his mouth, her own lips slack. "So, Andrew... what do you want?" she asked him in a voice barely above a whisper, staring at his lips intently but not moving an inch. The back of her neck tingles where his fingers rest.

Andrew sighed, threading the tips of his fingers through the wild, loose tendrils of her hair. This, he thought, was the only real difference between his wife and this woman. Siobhan hadn't worn her hair loose and wavy since they'd been having an affair, back when she seemed like a softer person. He had never quite realized how closed off she'd been, even then, that there was a part of her he could just never reach. All he really wanted was a human connection. "I'm here because I don't want to face an empty hotel room. How pathetic is that?" Andrew muttered in lieu of anything else. He couldn't really answer her question. The man who has everything isn't supposed to want anything (but he _doesn't_ have it all, despite his best efforts).

Bridget shrugged, looking down at their laps, so close but with a million miles between them. She could more than relate to that, thinking of the crappy little rental that awaited her. Her addiction had gradually dissolved all the ties binding her to other people, and she was lost, adrift in the city, just as friendless as this traveler. How long had she felt like there was a hole in her heart that nothing could fill? Wasn't that why she'd drank and done all those drugs, why she'd taken this job and why she'd been with so many men, trying to fill it up, trying to find completion? "Everyone gets lonely."

She paused, shifting for a moment as she glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes. Bridget gently put her hand over his knee. "But sometimes it helps... to be with someone," she murmured almost without thinking. His eyes cut over to hers, flashing a bit of incredulity. Bridget was almost unable to believe she'd just said that to him, and she felt a hot wave of embarrassment wash over her. Her grip tightened just a little on his knee, but she was so intent on explaining what she meant that she failed to notice how he stared deeply at her hand. It was like a tether to him. "Is there _anything _I can do for you?" Bridget found herself asking awkwardly, having exhausted every other potential thing she could think of to say to comfort him. She felt like she wasn't doing her job right.

Andrew snapped out of his daze, looking up and accidentally meeting her gaze head-on. Things with Siobhan had gotten so bad that Andrew rarely looked at her directly anymore, especially her eyes. He isn't sure she realizes how much she could manipulate him with those eyes, or how impossible it is to say no to her when she turns those green-gold eyes on him with just the right spark in them. As of late, her eyes were greenish-gray, cold and dead to him, the color of money, so unlike the lake green eyes that had seduced him in the first place. But Bridget's eyes are the right color, and she's... almost perfect. "Actually, there is something," he found himself saying before he could think twice, lips curling into a half-smile.

Bridget's brows shot up, but she nodded anyway, intrigued. It was rare: not knowing what a customer wanted or was going to ask her for. She kind of liked the mystery of it, the novelty that he didn't seem so hard up to sleep with her, which, of course, made her want him more. "Lay it on me," she insisted, leaning into the upholstery, lounging really, making herself a bit more comfortable. Her hand became more comfortable on his knee, grip relaxing, fingers absently stroking the crook of his knee. He shuddered faintly, minutely.

Andrew's face tightened a little, but he mostly managed to ignore the innuendo in her voice. His gaze lingered on her lips, still glossy and inviting-looking, before he shifted his eyes slightly to the side, to her cheek and beyond. He removed his hand from her neck, not wanting to get any more distracted. Bridget frowned a little, and he swallowed hard. "I have a proposition for you," he stated in the same voice he used to talk to would-be investors and fellow businessmen, teasing a hint of that shark smile of his. Bridget gave him a look, cocking her head ever so slightly, sliding one of those long, gorgeous legs up under her. Her leg brushed against the fabric of his suit so that she could feel the warmth of his skin through it, but she didn't move away.

Siobhan would have, but where she didn't, the woman opposite him motioned for him to keep talking, smiling faintly. "Actually," he began, licking his lips and gathering up his nerve, "I was wondering if you would do me a favor." The look on her face was enigmatic; mostly because Bridget herself wasn't sure what he was asking for. She was, after all, used to people asking her for favors, propositioning her, and saying there was something she could do for him, but she wasn't getting the predatory vibes she was used to from him. Andrew glanced down briefly, feeling embarrassed about this, but he forced himself to continue. "I know most girls don't, er... _socialize_... with patrons outside of the club, but I... was wondering if you might make an exception," Andrew elaborated delicately, glancing up to make sure he hadn't offended her.

Bridget merely stared back at him in curiosity. Most men didn't bother euphemizing it; most men just assumed she was what she was. And normally she was fine with that since she didn't make pretensions, but sometimes it hurt, how worthless they thought she was and how little they endeavored to hide that. It was nice that he at least considered her feelings before jumping to the predictable and true conclusion. Truthfully, though, she would've made an exception for him anyway, no matter what he wanted her to do. She smiled back at him coyly, pressing down slightly on his knee. "What did you have in mind?" she asked in a husky voice, eyes raking over him deliberately, hand sliding down the inside of his knee and back up.

His cheeks turned a little pink, and he backed away from her a bit, steady gaze wavering. "Look, I don't usually do this sort of thing," he said shortly, running a hand through his hair and increasingly thinking that this was a very, _very_ bad idea. Bridget fought the urge to roll her eyes, having heard that particular line so many times she'd lost count. Like she hadn't heard that one before, even as men did absolutely awful things to her and treated her like a dog. "And... ordinarily I wouldn't even ask, but you just look so much like her..." he continued distractedly, having to look away from her before his emotions ran away with him.

Bridget frowned at him, wondering what exactly he wanted of her. He hadn't mentioned any specifics, and she couldn't tell if he wanted to sleep with her or something else. He was fiddling with his hands, fidgeting a bit, and it almost amused her because it meant, of course, that he wasn't accustomed to this, that maybe there was a decent married man out there who didn't frequent prostitutes. She'd liked first-timers and one-time encounters because they were always so eager to please, gentle and so surprised that a woman like herself would let them touch her, that she would pretend to enjoy it. Sometimes she surprised herself and actually did. She slid her hand a bit up the inside of his thigh. "So... what do you want me to do?" she repeated, edging toward him, towards his side until their chests touched.

He glanced down immediately, taking inventory of their position and the way her breasts jutted out proudly. She gave him an encouraging smile, waiting for him to warm up and overcome his nerves. Her fingers drummed against the inside of his thigh, distracting Andrew and making his throat terribly dry. "I was wondering if you would go to a fundraiser with me," he managed finally, letting out a ragged breath after he'd finished.

Her fingers stilled on his thigh, and she blinked at him. "-As your date?" she inquired, genuinely surprised. It was both rare and dangerous to receive a real offer. Clients usually found that a stripper's appeal faded in the light of day, outside of clubs and hotel rooms... like Cinderella turning back into a scullery maid at midnight.

Andrew had always thought his wife was one of a kind, that she was an exquisite, rare creature, so it was strange to encounter her doppleganger in the same town where he'd stumbled across the original that fateful day six or so years ago. He had never believed in fate, but something compelled him to talk to this woman, searching for what, he didn't know, trying to recapture what he thought he'd found with Siobhan. It was as if he were no longer entirely in control of his own actions. He nodded faintly, half-agreeing with her, "Kind of." At her questioning glance, he continued, briefly wondering how to phrase it. The words came out blunt and unbidden. "As my wife."

She froze like a statue, and her eyes widened to the size of saucers. That was new. She'd been many things over the years, but Bridget had never been a wife. She wasn't sure she'd even been a mistress. She'd been a girlfriend before, a friend-with-benefits, a ho, a stripper, and a trick, but never something that legitimate. She wasn't even sure she _could_ be that. "I know it's a bit short notice, and I completely understand if you can't or don't want to go... Honestly, I know I'm going to be bored to death, and I wouldn't go if I could get out of it..." he continued, cringing a little as he realized he wasn't really helping his case. She didn't react, just sat there with that surprised look on her face. Andrew fumbled with words for a moment, trying to explain, to backtrack before ultimately deciding that it didn't serve him.

Honesty and bluntness have become rare in his life, and he was tired of being dishonest, manipulative, and diplomatic all the time, even when he was on vacation. Besides, where has any of that gotten him? Certainly it had earned him a lot of money, but look at the empty life he had to show for it. He swallowed hard, eyes running over her with a hunger Bridget didn't understand. It wasn't a hunger of the sexual kind; it was something deeper. He was taking in the sight of her, memorizing and appreciating. How long had it been since he'd seen Siobhan in a similar state of undress, making an effort for him, despite their admittedly pathetic sex life? How long had it been since she'd looked at him like he _mattered_, like she was really listening to anything he had to say?

"My, uh, wife was supposed to come here with me, but she bailed at the last minute and I... I figured, well, why go alone when you look so much like her?" he told her, carefully taking her hand off of his thigh and linking their fingers. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the last time he'd simply held his wife's hand. He couldn't, but it felt nice to hold someone's hand for no other purpose than because he wanted to. He shrugged a little when she didn't say anything at first, face feeling hot. "Is that silly?"

Suddenly everything was clear: his interest, what he wanted from her. She had been staring at their conjoined hands. She'd told him he could touch her anywhere, and all he'd done was hold her hand. It was unfathomable... and nice. She blinked and looked up, meeting his gaze. Bridget squeezed his hand, offering him a reassuring, if a bit pitying, smile. She could never say no to requests like his, feeling keenly the desperation of loving someone who doesn't love you back. She was careful with them, careful to play her role and give them what comfort she can. She doesn't exactly like being a surrogate, but she likes helping them, likes giving them peace, and sometimes she likes feeling like she's a part of something more than just herself. Sometimes she wishes she was the women they're mooning over, the decent ones who come to her alternately to forget or remember, because no one has ever loved her that much in her life. "No," she said simply, watching as his shoulders relaxed slightly.

She allowed herself to study his features in the silence: the warm brown eyes, the faded lines in his forehead, the dark, slightly mussed hair, the square, cleft chin, and the imprints of dimples in his cheeks, reserved for better days. He was so damn cute, and he had absolutely no idea, she thought with a trace of fondness. Bridget suddenly remembered the tip in her waistband and reached down, pulling out the bills and stuffing them into her bra. Andrew's eyes watched with mild interest, probably a bit too much interest, actually. She nodded slowly. "Okay," she consented, intrigued at the prospect of a challenge.

Andrew blinked, startled, unable to fathom her actually agreeing to his suggestion. He had never really expected her to say yes. He'd suggested that to her because he had nothing to lose. She was a stranger and after tonight, after this weekend, he would probably never see her again, so he'd figured why the hell not? Why shouldn't he ask her out to help alleviate his loneliness? His wife hadn't wanted to be here anyway, and nothing was going to happen between them, so he didn't have anything to feel guilty about. He just wanted to have someone by his side for the night, and the prospect of this woman pretending to be a wife he hadn't had for a very long time was just too hard to pass up.

Bridget smiled at him, leaning against his shoulder. He didn't object. She knew full well she was getting a bit too comfortable with him, but he'd just asked her to pretend to be his wife. She turned a bit, peering up at him, flashing him an increasingly bright grin. She was looking forward to it already. "So, darling," she began in a soft, flirty voice, "who do you want me to be? Who am I?" She squeezed his fingers again, and Andrew's heart leapt into his throat. The familiar nickname not directed against him coolly or in mockery, the flirtation intended at him; he didn't know how to take it. He tore his eyes away from her. It was all a bit too much.

He knew exactly who he wanted her to be, all right. "Mrs. Martin," he announced boldly to the dark room, not looking at her, thoughts clearly elsewhere. The fatal die had been cast, and all that remained was her answer. He cleared his throat, holding up their conjoined hands, eyes briefly touching upon her bare left ring finger. He wished she could really _be _her, that his wife was actually this amenable to him, this pleasant, this willing. He cleared his throat, silently berating himself for the futility and stupidity of his thoughts. Of course she was; she was paid to be whatever he wanted. "That's my last name." Bridget nodded, thinking it over. That name and everything he is and has said suddenly hits a trigger in her head. For a long moment, she strains to remember whatever it is that's so important.

Then she took one more good look at him, cocking her head and trailing her eyes over his features, seeing the familiar in him. Andrew Martin, she thinks, wondering why that name sounds so familiar, wondering where she's heard it before. It is, after all, a very common name, and there must be hundreds of Andrew Martins out there, but something about this one calls out to her. And then, suddenly, she sees it and knows why his name and face were so familiar. Her jaw went slack and her eyes went wide with the realization.

This man is Siobhan's husband. The man she's been grinding up on and attempting to seduce for the better part of an hour is _Siobhan's_, and so out-of-her-league and off-limits it makes poor Bridget's head spin. She's seen his picture in some newspaper clipping or Google search or letter or Christmas card or something. And not only is the man standing in front of her her brother-in-law, but he wanted her to pretend to be her sister. Who better, right?

Bridget looked him over, wondering if he even knew about her, if that was why he'd asked in the first place, despite his initial reluctance. If maybe that was the reason why he was so uncomfortable being alone with her. He has to know, after all, right? Only she wondered why he wasn't looking on her with the hatred she deserves for all she's hurt Shiv. She's done so much to Siobhan; she can't hurt her anymore, no matter what their "situation" is. Bridget felt sick to her stomach as she reviewed her past actions in her head like a reel of film. Thinking about how she'd touched him made her feel repulsive and dirty and so many other things she didn't want to feel. She owed Siobhan and her husband more courtesy than this, certainly. "So you'll do it, then?" Andrew pressed, a note of hope and excitement creeping into his voice.

Bridget pulled away from his shoulder, backing away so that she wasn't touching him anymore. Her hand slipped out of his, and she looked down at the couch, fingering the fancy upholstery. Andrew's face fell, confusion setting in, but Bridget didn't trust herself to speak. She was hard-pressed to think of a time when she'd felt cheaper. She couldn't do this to her sister, not now, not after everything. "Andrew, I..." she began, already preparing her apologies, trying to think up an excuse.

Then she made the fatal mistake of looking up at him and allowing their gazes to connect. Something about his pleading, piercing stare holds her there, holds her hostage, refusing to let her look away. She was drawn in towards him through some kind of magnetism she didn't understand, something too powerful to resist. And she looks him in the eyes, fully intending to say no, and sees that he is lonely. She sees and understands just how powerful that loneliness is, and she sees just how much he loves her sister. She feels how much her being Siobhan for a night, just one night, would mean to him. And, just like that, she _can't_ say no. Even though she knows she should.

After all, she reassured herself, she'll only see him this one time, right? What could happen? It isn't like Siobhan's ever going to find out about this, not that she has to know. Nothing's going to happen.

Bridget attempted to smile, but her smile was a bit tighter and more forced than she expected. Andrew looked a bit disappointed; he turned away, shaking his head and silently asking himself what he was expecting. She wasn't Siobhan, and she wasn't going to be. He knew better than to think otherwise. "I already said I would, didn't I, Mister Martin?" Bridget drawled, attempting levity, managing a bit more genuine smile this time. Her hand found his once more, but otherwise she didn't move any closer. She didn't trust herself to.

After all, Siobhan had fallen for this man, and it was best that someone like her stayed away from him, that she put him into this little box of Siobhan-related things and never think about him again after this weekend. He was not even hers to _pretend _to have. She was doing both him and her sister a favor; she knew her role, knew the lines she wasn't supposed to stray from, and she would stick to it. She could be the trophy on his arm just as easily as she could be a toy in someone's bed. Siobhan wouldn't have to worry. After all, she looked just like her sister, and a very evidently lonely Andrew had been able to resist even her best charms, despite the attraction, because he knew she wasn't Siobhan. That said a great deal about him.

Andrew smiled for real, feeling the breath rush out of him. He dimly recognized the feeling as relief. He swallowed and put on his business face. The blank poker face got him through a lot of difficult situations, and it was as familiar and comfortable as handling money. "How much do you want?" he asked calmly. Bridget blinked, surprised to find her eyes stinging at the offer of money. She quietly withdrew her hand. She'd thought... wrong, she supposed. Of course he thought she'd want money. She normally did. She normally suggested the amount first before agreeing to do anything.

But she was breaking all her rules with him. Bridget thought it over for a long moment, assessing him. He had money to burn, and she was doing him a favor. She might as well get something from it. "Five thousand for the night," she suggested half-seriously. She was sure he could afford it, and it was far more than she'd ever charged another client, but she didn't expect him to agree. She expected him to bargain, to size her up too and realize she'd take much less than that.

He seemed to puzzle it over for a moment, but a few thousand was chump change to him. Five thousand dollars seemed cheap for an evening of companionship, especially in comparison to the hundreds of thousands of dollars he'd spent on Siobhan over the years, just to have her blow him off at any available opportunity. "That sounds fine," Andrew agreed, shaking her hand.

Bridget tried not to gape at him, dumbfounded and dizzy at the prospect of that much money for one night of comparatively easy work that didn't leave her whole body aching. She makes pretty good money as a stripper, for sure, but she rarely, if ever, sees that much money in a week. That was enough to pay her rent and expenses for about six months. Yet, in a way, his easy generosity pained her and made her feel bad about taking any money from him when he was family.

Andrew paused, thinking it over a bit, eying her speculatively, fingers on his chin. "I ought to give you a bit more, though, since you're going to so much trouble, literally above and beyond," he announced, looking at her and wondering what sort of clothes she had, if she even owned anything suitable for the fundraiser. Bridget's eyes widened further at the prospect of a large tip and at the fact that Andrew didn't even blink when discussing these amounts, but Andrew paid her no mind. "Oh, and I'll pay for your dress and accessories and all that," he added a moment later. He smiled a little, thinking about it, remembering days when Siobhan used to drag him shopping with her. She'd model the clothes for him, and as bored as he was and as much as he hated it, she'd been so beautiful and always made it up to him afterwards. "I'll even take you shopping tomorrow," Andrew announced, happy to have something to do to get his mind off Siobhan.

Bridget had not been expecting this, and his sudden generosity made her feel even more guilty, like she was taking advantage of family for money. She tried to wave it off, like it wasn't a big deal, insisting that he probably had better things to do. "Nonsense," Andrew insisted, beginning to perk up a bit. "Besides, I have to tell you a bit about my wife to make it convincing... so that you'll know the names of the people there and the right things to talk about." She stared at him, only realizing at that moment how intent he was on carrying on the charade and making everyone think she really was his wife. If he were any other man, she might've been alarmed, but he was family, and he was Siobhan's, and she didn't think her sister would marry a psychopath.

Andrew once again eyed her bare fingers. "We're also going to have to rent you a ring," he said with a bit of a frown, remembering buying a ring for Siobhan. He let himself get lost in thought, remembering proposing to her, how he'd gone all out and how Siobhan had smiled like the cat who'd swallowed the canary. It was hard to believe that things had gone so far downhill in five years. Bridget swallowed hard, throat feeling thick all of a sudden. It would feel real once he slipped that ring on her finger. She'd never been anyone's wife before.

She didn't want to think about the reason why most men paid her, what he could possibly be asking of her and not saying. Bridget didn't want to think her sister had married that kind of man, the kind she encountered on an almost daily basis here. She didn't want to think they had that kind of marriage. So, biting her lip, Bridget turned to him and said quietly, "I do have one question for you, if you don't mind me asking..." Andrew looked up with her, brow furrowing a little, but he motioned for her to go on. "Where's your real wife?" she asked, unable to stop herself from wondering where her sister was and what had brought her husband to this place. She knew Siobhan wasn't in Tahoe; she could feel that much, and Siobhan surely would've never let her husband out of her sight to go visit a strip club.

But she wanted to hear the truth from Andrew's lips, to get a glimpse at the life he and her sister lived together. To be honest, Bridget was virtually starved of any information of her sister, and she _ached_ to know how she was living and if she was well. She missed Siobhan with every bone of her body, and Andrew was the closest she'd gotten to her sister in years.

Andrew's eyes widened in surprise, and Bridget would've found the expression almost comical if she didn't want so badly to know the truth. He didn't think she would want to know, didn't see why she should care about a woman she'd never met. "Back in New York," he responded quietly, willing himself not to wonder what his wife was up to in his absence. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer. Glancing at her, he read something in Bridget's eyes, an eagerness to know more, and Andrew found himself talking to her, "But that's not really what you mean... You mean why isn't she here?" Bridget nodded slowly, and he looked away, lips forming a grim line.

Andrew leaned back into his seat, running a hand through his hair. Where to start? "I don't know," he muttered, shoulders shrugging helplessly. That was the truth of it, really. He didn't know what he'd done to make her not want to come, why she had such a strong objection. He'd suggested making a vacation out of it, even, like in the old days, but Siobhan hadn't even gone for that. "I asked her. She said no, but she didn't say why," Andrew continued, running a hand over his face and rubbing his chin. He'd exhausted all of his mental facilities trying to understand Siobhan, had been doing that since the moment he met her, and he was tired of trying to find the things she was hiding from him. "My wife doesn't particularly enjoy answering questions. Especially if I'm asking."

Fortunately Andrew didn't see the way Bridget blanched, too lost in his thoughts. Bridget thought that sounded exactly like Siobhan, who never talked about anything she found unpleasant or personal and never revealed any information voluntarily. She never answered _to_ anyone, either. It was like prying teeth with her, and Bridget could think of literally thousands of things she wasn't likely to have discussed with Andrew.

He thought back to what Siobhan had said, the few things she'd said that stuck with him. He found more often than not that he wanted to forget his conversations with Siobhan. Things were getting uglier and uglier between them, and he didn't like how easily she seemed to bring out the very worst in him with so little provocation. He hated the mistrust in her eyes, the silence that greeted him when he returned home, the broken vows, the dishonesty, the way she endeavored so little to hide the fact that she was keeping things from him. Moreover, he hated that he wasn't willing to do the little bit of digging that would uncover his wife's secrets, that he didn't want to know what she thought about him or what she did in her free time, that he was afraid of what he'd uncover.

Andrew grimaced, wondering when he'd become so cynical and demoralized. How horrible was it that a supposedly loving and trusting relationship was destroying his life? Then again, he should've known better. His failed marriage with Catherine was an obvious sign that he'd overlooked. The problem was clearly with _him, _not the women in his life. "She said I'd be fine on my own, like always," Andrew repeated numbly. He shot the empty glass a longing look, glancing around at the gaudiness of his surroundings. It was all so sordid and pathetic, and Andrew figured it would be fitting, drinking to distraction, drinking until he got completely sticking trashed and didn't know up from down.

Sensing his distance, seeing his faraway gaze, Bridget put her hand on his knee hesitantly, mooring him to the moment. Andrew turned sluggishly to look into her face. Her lips were faintly pursed, turning down at the corners in profound sympathy. The expression on her face made Andrew want to bury his face in his hands so that he didn't have to face her pity. "But you're not fine," she said bluntly, looking him over with the eyes of a mother. Bridget hadn't been able to suppress her need to care for people; her compassion was simultaneously her greatest strength and weakness. "You're lonely."

Andrew tensed up and then shrugged. He didn't want to say Siobhan didn't care, even though he was fairly certain that was the case. He didn't want to have to admit the sad truth of his marriage to a stranger, to say his secret shame out loud. He needed to get his mind off of his failures, off of how he wished it was with Siobhan. He couldn't change that, and he knew better than to hope or wish differently. It was hardly like him to indulge his self-pity, but that was exactly what he was doing here, drinking, paying this woman for her time simply because she looked like his wife. He barely knew her, but he felt like she, a stranger, cared about how he was doing more than his own wife did, and what did that say about him?

He looked over at her. She was standing there, being perfectly still, doing a very good impression of hanging on his every word and watching him carefully. He couldn't look at her for very long, though. Siobhan never looked at him for very long anymore, and he could no longer handle her gaze, much less meeting her eyes. "A lot of men complain to you about their wives, don't they?" Andrew asked thoughtfully. Bridget shrugged, eyes on him, careful. The job sometimes required being very diplomatic, a lot of times pretending to care and build relationships when she didn't care either way. But it was different with Andrew because it was personal.

He was a piece of her sister, the only piece of that puzzle she had now besides her memories, and Bridget wasn't about to let this opportunity to know her sister again slip away from her. It probably wouldn't have been that different, though, if he wasn't her brother-in-law. She still found him intriguing and attractive, and that was a rare thing in a client, not having to pretend so heavily. The other strippers had often pointed out that Bridget was one of the best at finding a way to be interested, at seeing through the client's facade to the man he was. They jokingly called her Saint Bridget, a nickname some of the previous clubs had liked to play up by putting her in ridiculous Catholic schoolgirl outfits. "I... I'm sorry to burden you with this," Andrew muttered, staring down at his shoes, unable to look at her. He felt very silly all of a sudden, spilling his secrets to a stripper, a stranger with his wife's face and body. What did she care about his problems?

Bridget smiled faintly, catching sight of the blush in his cheeks, amused at his sudden self-consciousness. "Don't be." She squeezed his knee gently, leaning towards him. "It's okay, really," she assured him, "Half of the job is listening." Andrew glanced up at her with a skeptical expression, but Bridget tried her best to keep him at ease, firming up her smile. "That's the fun part." Andrew snorted. She shrugged, taking her hand off of his knee; it suddenly felt very inappropriate placed there. Bridget tried to remind herself that she wasn't doing anything wrong; this was her job, and he was paying her for this, not even anything sexual, regardless of what she'd thought and done before she knew. In all honesty, it was a bit of a relief not to have to be flirty and sparkly and fake with him, that he wasn't the sort of man who appreciated the simpering doll she was expected to be.

"Men talk to women like me because they don't feel like they have anyone else they _can _talk to. We don't judge... and they tell us things they're afraid to tell their wives and girlfriends," Bridget continued, thinking about it. Talking honestly to a client was rare, talking about herself even rarer. It was easier to just listen to them talk about themselves unprompted, with her trying to find and feign an interest. Better that than trying to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. She liked the ability to have a remotely normal conversation for a change.

It pained Andrew to think that he had no one else to talk to about these things, even though he'd shelled out thousands to shrinks and bartenders and secretaries for putting up with him and his neuroses. Even with those people, though, he had to keep up some sort of an act, to maintain his own fronts and vestiges of respectability, putting on a show, something he didn't have to worry about with a woman like Bridget. "Because there's no emotional attachment with us, and they don't have to worry about us leaving," she elaborated, frowning a little as she thought about all of the people who had left her. She didn't have many people she could talk to like this herself these days. Andrew's shoulders relaxed a little bit, but his expression remained troubled. He was cursing the aforementioned attachment to his wife, understanding why men would go to her and women like her.

He opened his mouth, frowning, intending to tell her that she wasn't a psychiatrist and didn't deserve to listen to other people's problems but stopped short. His eyes trailed over her body, taking every inch of her in in a way he'd scarcely allowed himself to do before. Bridget didn't move, merely stared back at him calmly, even though she didn't know where he was going with this or what was going to happen next. He realized suddenly that he was wrong about her body. Though his wife was in great shape and very flexible from her Pilates, the woman next to him had the better, tighter body by far. "How many men cheat on their wives? What percentage?" he asked suddenly, curious and wondering if the feelings he was experiencing were normal.

Of course _none _of this was normal, and it made perfect sense for him to be attracted to her. She looked exactly like his wife, listened politely to what he said, and actually seemed to enjoy spending time with him. And hadn't he felt the same all-encompassing desire with Siobhan when he'd been married to Catherine? Hadn't he felt like she was irresistible, like he was too in love with her to deny her or his feelings? All he'd wanted, all he'd known, was the desire to make her his, the urge to take her and love her and give her the world. His resolve had been too weak, the strength of his conviction fading. The unattainable, distant, icy Goddess had bewitched him almost from sight, and he'd been lost ever since she said that first word to him. And equally tragically and quickly, she'd taken over his soul, stolen his will and made him hers.

Bridget froze, more than a little horrified. She'd heard ridiculous figures like eighty percent. Eighty percent of men who paid for sex were married. Bridget had certainly been with a lot more married men than she should've, not that she had usually cared enough to ask. She usually had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy when it came to club hook-ups, partly also because she was ashamed of the things she did for extra money. She felt bad for every act of adultery she'd committed, a little guilty but not too broken-up because she knew those men would've just gone to someone else. Had the time she was dreading come? She blinked, swallowing. Her mouth was so dry all of a sudden that it was hard for her to form words. "In general or..." she trailed off expectantly, not willing to say it.

Andrew cleared his throat, glancing up to look her briefly in the eyes. Bridget shivered a little as their eyes met. His eyes were so dark. "With you. How common is it?" Bridget stiffened at the unexpected bluntness. She didn't know how to answer that, so for a moment she merely stared at him, gaping like a fish. His stare was unrelenting, and it made Bridget uncomfortable, so she shifted a little on the suddenly-hard bench, feeling a kind of prickling under her skin. He'd just made her examine her life a little, and, as usual, she didn't like what she saw there.

She swallowed hard. "Me or someone like me?" she asked hesitantly, shying away from him a little. She was suddenly conscious of her state of undress, conscious of the fact that here she was in just her underwear, meeting her brother-in-law for the very first time, and he had no idea. Andrew didn't say a word, just looked at her, and she didn't know what that meant, but facing up to her own culpability made her a little sick, so she pretended Andrew wasn't directly asking _her_ how often she helped married men cheat on their wives, like she'd been so willing to do with him. She'd seen the ring and hadn't even cared until she found out he was married to Siobhan, of all people; Bridget didn't want to think about what she might be doing to him now if she still didn't know.

She shrugged, making her body smaller, curling into a corner of the booth, all her confidence worn bare. She let out a weary sigh, looking anywhere but him. "That depends entirely on the girl, honey. On the club, too. Depends on what they're looking for and how determined they are... how charming... how much they're willing to pay," she explained quietly, thinking it over. It wasn't an answer to his question; the answer was generally however many men thought they could get away with it. But she'd framed it in a stripper's terms because most strippers didn't let them take such liberties. Andrew cleared his throat, doubtlessly expecting an answer he couldn't give. "If the stripper lets him, most guys would do it," she confessed finally, glancing over at him just in time to see him look away almost guiltily.

His cheeks pinked faintly; he was no doubt thinking about how his body had betrayed him, and she would almost find it amusing if he wasn't related to her by marriage—her _sister's _marriage. Andrew rested his hands on his thighs, exhaling. "I can see why someone would be tempted," he said, looking her over casually, in a way that meant little but made her feel completely naked before his gaze. She wanted suddenly to cross her arms over her chest and cover herself up, but he'd paid for this. He turned towards her a little bit, eyes shining with some sort of curiosity. "It's easy, no strings attached, some kind of fantasy..." he reflected, eyes meeting hers. "You've done that before, haven't you?" he asked guilelessly, in such a way that she couldn't be sure what he was asking.

Was he asking her if she'd slept with married men or if she'd created a fantasy or what? Bridget shrugged, crossing an arm over her chest, but in such a way that it pushed her breasts up. From the way Andrew's eyes flicked down, it seemed that he noticed too. It was amazing how the knowledge that he was her brother-in-law had put her instantly at ease, secure in the knowledge that she wasn't going to do anything with him and glad of it, glad to know that the two of them still had some morals left. It was nice to drop the facade and be a real person with him, to not have to flirt and simper her way into his pocketbook.

"We're paid to be everything that men want," she said, and, God, if it didn't sound so blasé. Andrew snorted, but the way he was looking at her proved her point. He was still a man, and he appreciated the carefully cultivated appearance of an ideal woman, a female so perfect that she could not possibly exist in reality. Even he bought into it a bit. She leveled a look at him, lest he judge her. "So how is sleeping with them suddenly crossing a line?" she asked defiantly, tossing her wavy hair as if she really was that careless. Like any stripper, she was conscious of every minute motion of her body and how it might attract potential customers; it was difficult to rid herself of the awareness. "Sex is part of that fantasy," she declared, eyes locking with his so intensely that they both had to look away.

She felt a little perspiration on the back of her neck. For a long time Andrew said nothing, merely sitting in silence and contemplating what she'd said, because, well, what could he say to that? After a while, though, his curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up the tumbler and poured himself some more Scotch, taking a thoughtful sip before allowing himself to even properly contemplate what he wanted to ask her.

He licked his lips, making a faint smacking sound that reminded Bridget just how satisfying a good single-malt could be, filling her with a longing to fill the emptiness with something more than empty conversation with a man she'd probably never see after this weekend. Bridget wanted nothing more than to ask him about Siobhan, but she held her tongue because Siobhan had obviously never said a single word to him about her, and she didn't want to ruin that. She'd already ruined so much for Siobhan.

Andrew took a large gulp of his drink, letting the liquid courage burn its way down his throat before he let his all his manners and good breeding fly out the window. He cleared his throat uncertainly, turning to look at her with eyes that had taken on a whiskey haze Bridget was all too familiar with. She felt a surge of pity and kinship for him. "Would you do that with me?" he asked suddenly, hating himself for doing it, for needing to know the answer. He hated himself for going there, for wanting, no, needing to-

Bridget turned to look at him abruptly, gaping at him. Andrew's cheeks colored, and he took another sip of the whiskey so he wouldn't be forced to repeat himself. She was speechless for a good moment, a rarity in her present career, uncertain if he was propositioning her or just asking. She managed to close her mouth and raised her brows, leaning against the booth and facing him. "Are you asking, Andrew?" she rejoined, surprised, her voice a bit lower than she'd intended. She didn't know how she managed to keep her voice steady; what he was suggesting had simultaneously scared the living daylights out of her and sent a primitive thrill down her spine.

She tilted her head, regarding him curiously. He'd wisely retreated into his drink. Still, he didn't seem to her like the type to cheat on his wife. She wished she hadn't said his first name. It felt somehow too intimate, almost like she was encouraging him, and she did _not_ want to do that. Because she knew or, well, she was pretty sure, anyway, that she wouldn't be able to go through with it, with screwing him, even if a part of her secretly wanted to.

He shook his head, feeling a bit ashamed and pathetic. He swallowed hard, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "I... just wanted to know if you would," he attempted to explain, grimacing when he realized how that made him sound. He screwed his eyes shut and attempted to rephrase it. "I... I'm not asking you to..." he stammered. Bridget bit her lip, stifling a giggle. It was sort of funny how some of the most confident men around could be reduced to drooling, stuttering hormonal messes in the company of women most people never gave a second thought. He sighed, frustrated, pinching the brow of his nose. "I was just wondering if that was... if it was the sort of thing you would do. If... if you'd... want to." He recoiled, realizing how that had sounded and then... well, it hit him that he didn't care how needy and pathetic that had sounded. She was a stripper, and she wasn't going to judge him.

When he was able to look at her, he saw that she was smiling, as if the question amused her. Secretly, though, Bridget was extremely relieved he wasn't propositioning her. She let out a little chuckle, meeting his gaze. "Well, I'd be a fool not to, wouldn't I?" she drawled with that fake little smile, knowing (or _hoping_, anyway) that she would've said no if he'd really asked. She couldn't say yes and still respect herself. She couldn't take anything more from Siobhan. Andrew's expression eased into something pleasant, and she thought that he looked relieved.

And, even though she thought better of it, she uncrossed her arm and placed her hand on the seat, sliding it across to his hand. She knew what he needed, could see how he was doubting himself, doubting his attractiveness because... her sister wasn't interested. She'd seen it before, but knowing that it was her _sister_, and that he was _her_ husband—it was giving her pause. She did pause just a moment before deciding to reach out and slide her hand over his. His skin was so soft under her sweaty palm, and he looked up at her the minute her hand touched his, an uncertain but somehow hopeful look on his face. When she spoke again, her voice was low and measured. "But yes, Andrew. I would," she murmured heavily, nibbling on her bottom lip and thinking that she'd want to.

She didn't realize it, but her eyes had darkened to a dusky shade of green that Andrew hadn't seen in quite some time, a shade he associated with lust and physical attraction, and it made him feel more like a man to see that look in her eyes, on his pseudo-wife's face. He attempted to smile, realizing just how close their faces were. He didn't realize it, but he'd moved towards her. Bridget, in a haze of her own, reached up and placed her other hand on his cheek. He leaned into her touch instinctively, and Bridget inhaled sharply, surprised at how warm he was and at how easy it all felt. She tried to remind herself that he was just like this because he was confusing her with Siobhan or some idealized version of Siobhan, but it felt so real.

"You're hot, Andrew. Hot, charming, kind, and rich. The whole package. Don't doubt that," she found herself saying, stroking his cheek and leaning in a little more, freezing in place when she realized she could smell the whiskey on his breath. She meant it, though. She didn't see how her sister could do much better. Hadn't Andrew been exactly the sort of man her sister had always wanted? He was witty, charming, urbane, cultured, courteous, wealthy, attractive, well-dressed, intense and passionate, probably a romantic too, but with just enough complexities to have kept her sister interested. And he was obviously very deeply and painfully in love with Siobhan... So, why weren't they happy? Why wasn't Siobhan interested?

He blinked dully, his eyes heavy-lidded, and Bridget admired the bronzey-gold fringe of his eyelashes in the light. She was so close now she could smell his cologne, a subtly masculine scent, a bit smoky and a bit musky, expensive-smelling. Andrew leaned back, and Bridget's hand slipped off of his face. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head a little. If all of that's really true, he thought, then why doesn't my wife want to sleep with me? He glanced at the woman opposite him, so like his wife, only golden where Siobhan was pale, her long hair an artfully wavy mess, her eyes outlined a bit too heavily with smudged kohl, making her look younger and almost childlike, but, at the same time, like some sort of pagan fertility goddess, gilded in gold and sunlight. His wife was a different kind of goddess, icy cool to the touch, frozen, rather more like a statue to be admired from afar than a real human being.

Andrew sighed, looking away from her, hating how captivated he was by this beauty, so like his wife and yet not. He'd always thought Siobhan was unique, that he'd never find another like her, and yet... here, in the very town where he'd met her, he'd met a stripper who looked exactly like her and spoke exactly like her yet was not her. It felt like some sort of sign from God that he didn't know how to decipher. Was God telling him to give up on Siobhan, that she wasn't really so special and perfect after all if some common stripper was able to replicate her? Was He saying that Siobhan wasn't who she thought he was, that she wasn't any better than this fallen woman? Was He telling him to start over with someone else? Or with Siobhan? Or was God telling him that everywhere he went, no matter how hard he tried, he'd only see Siobhan's face in every other woman's?

He stared dimly into his tumbler, as if he could divine truth in the scotch that circled the bottom of the glass. "My whole life, I've been surrounded by women, but I've never understood them," he admitted grimly. He glanced up at the bright light in the center of the ceiling, staring at it until it burned his eyes. "I can charm them and buy them nice things... but I don't know how to speak with them," he continued, looking down again, blinking furiously and seeing strange-colored spots. Bridget noted the paradox inherent in his statement but said nothing. "And nothing I do is _ever_ enough for any of the women in my life. I've never been able to give them what they need," he confessed, shoulders sagging further and looking up at her piteously. "Maybe you can tell me what I've been doing wrong," he murmured, closing his eyes and frowning.

There was something so _helpless_ about him, about the hurt in him that Bridget wanted to fix, to fill, that she couldn't turn away. She couldn't treat him like he was any other client, like he didn't matter. She shrugged, deliberately leaning his shoulder against his, thinking he'd draw a bit of comfort from the easy physical contact. He looked up, jolted a bit, so maybe she was right. He had yet to move or shift his shoulder away from hers. "Maybe you've just got the wrong women in your life," she said, leaning on him a bit, tilting her head back. She said it without thinking what it meant about her sister. A smile curled at her lips, and she let her eyes run over him deliberately. "I find it incredibly hard to believe that you could _never_ give a woman just what she needed," she drawled, eyes heavy-lidded, just brushing her fingertips casually across his lower thigh. She let the implication wash over him as her lazy grin widened. Andrew answered it with a kind of surprised look and, a moment later, a wry smile.

He gave her a look, leaning back into the seat. His muscles felt looser, and he seemed to be more at ease in the confined space than he had before. "You're paid to say that sort of thing," he muttered cynically, tossing back his glass and draining half of it. Strippers said all kinds of insincere flattery, anything to stroke a guy's ego to get a higher tip and a bit more money. That was why she seemed so engaged, why she bothered to pay attention to him, which she'd been so willing earlier. He wanted honesty, and she was even trying to give him that, so he supposed he couldn't fault her for the little act. He could, however, fault himself for buying into it, for daring to believe what she said was true for even a moment.

Bridget shrugged, letting herself relax a little more, leaning into him a bit more. "I'm paid to sell a _fantasy_, Andrew," she clarified. Andrew swallowed hard, looking down. She allowed herself a real smile. Real smiles were so few on the job, more often than not directed at coworkers for some kind of inside joke. "But that doesn't always mean I have to lie to do it." She patted him on the thigh absently, and her smile turned sad. If they'd ever been properly introduced, this was the sort of moment where she'd tell him she approved of him and that if he hurt Siobhan she'd kick his ass... but they would never get to have that brotherly-sisterly talk, now would they? So she stifled a sigh, thinking of the phone calls and letters to Siobhan that had gone unanswered over the years, and announced instead, "You seem like a nice guy."

He openly snorted, pronouncing almost immediately, "You'd be one of the only people to think so." There was something bitter and almost... defeated... in his voice, as if he'd resigned himself to everyone having this image of him as the big bad guy. Andrew stared darkly at the remnants of his drink, holding it up to the light. The bright fluorescence filtered through the liquor like amber. Bridget tried very hard not to look, lest she grab the drink right out of his hand and down what was left. She could use a little something to steady her nerves. At the same time, though, Bridget knew she didn't need it, and she especially didn't need to be any more fun. If she touched even a single drop, she was just that much more likely to succumb to the attraction she was trying to forget she had.

She drummed her fingers on the seat absently, wondering why he seemed to think he was such a bad person or why he enjoyed being misunderstood. For a moment she debated saying outright that he was more bark than bite, but that might offend him since he was supposed to be some big tough businessman with more than a few shady business dealings (she supposed his association with Glen should've said something about any potential shadiness, but she couldn't really fault him for it since he seemed to dislike Glen as much as everyone at the club). Bridget rolled her eyes, coiling a strand of hair around her finger. "You're hardly the Big Bad Wolf, Andrew. Trust me, I've met a lot of beasts in this line of work," she countered, rubbing absently at her chest, at that slightly sweaty spot just between her breasts.

The lights and close proximity could make the room feel pretty stifling. Andrew's gaze followed the motion of her hand, not that Bridget noticed. She froze, stricken by a sudden thought, and turned to face him so quickly that Andrew averted his gaze, blushing, thinking he'd been caught. She'd just said two fairytale references... could he tell she'd been around children? Did he know anything about Sean? Bridget tried to calm her rapid breathing by reminding herself that if he didn't know who she was, that his wife had a twin, in all honesty he probably didn't know anything about Sean, but it was still enough to make her worry. Her hand curled in on itself above her heart; she was always panic-stricken that someone would find out about Sean and judge her, saying all the things she always knew she deserved to hear.

Andrew tilted his head and smiled a little with the saddest look on his face. Bridget's fingernails scraped her breastbone absently, as if she was searching for a necklace to play with. Feeling his inebriation and lowered inhibitions, Andrew's unfocused eyes traced the curves of her breast, following the creamy skin down into her bra and then over her stomach. He stared at her contemplatively for a moment, thinking it over before the alcohol got the better of his loosened tongue. "What do you want, Bridget?" It was hard just to remember her name. His voice was low, a bit raspy.

Bridget blinked up at him, stunned. No man had ever asked her what she wanted inside these walls. They'd presumed, though they knew, suggested things, but no one had ever asked her, much less in such a soft, strained voice, almost pleading. Andrew licked his dry lips. She'd given him something. He couldn't put it into his words, didn't quite understand what it was or what had changed, but he felt the need to repay her. Andrew hated to be in anyone's debt. "What can _I _do for you?" he asked, insistent. Maybe if he could give her what he wanted, he could do the same for the real Siobhan or... any of the other women in his life. After all, didn't they say a journey of a thousand miles began with a single step?

"You're doin' plenty." Bridget's throat was dry as she contemplated it, still staring at him as if he was going to bolt. She could ask for more money, but she didn't want that, didn't want him to think that that was all she was about. A patron had never asked to do anything for her. They'd asked if they could touch her, their own selfish thoughts in their minds. Some of them had asked if they could make her come or something like that, more for their enjoyment than hers, for their gratification or so they'd have some stupid story to brag about after the bachelor party. Sometimes, depending on how generous she was feeling and how much they were willing to pay, she'd obliged them, let them try. But no one in here had ever asked her what she wanted or what he could do for her or given her anything without expecting to gain anything from it. So, for a moment, Bridget sucked in a breath and savored the memory, and then she thought long and hard about what it was she wanted from him.

Asking him about Siobhan was out of the question, but she wanted to feel closer to her sister through him. All she could think about was how uncomfortable she felt after her shifts, how every muscle in her body felt sore after these late-night shifts that seemed to suck the life out of her. She'd come home and sleep the whole day through afterwards. She crossed her legs self-consciously, glancing down at her feet. Even despite the platforms, her feet hurt worst of all unless she'd pulled a muscle or something on the pole. "Well," she said after a while, so low Andrew had to lean in to hear it properly, "My feet are pretty sore."

Then the strangest thing happened. Andrew looked into her eyes and knew instantly what she wanted. Without even thinking, he set his drink down and reached for her foot, pulling it into his lap before she could protest. Bridget blinked, merely staring at him for a moment. It was rather surreal that someone like him would even want to touch her smelly, beat-up feet. Then his fingers deftly undid the buckle on her sandals, slipping the shoe off her foot and setting it down on the seat between them. Bridget shifted a little, leaning back into the seat as best as she could. Andrew's hands found the pad of her foot, pressing it so lightly that Bridget tensed a little. His fingers turned slow circles into the flesh, pressing in just the right spots with just the right pressure. She let out a low moan when his thumbs found the arch of her foot, kneading the tension and stiffness out of it, and Andrew smiled to himself. Apparently he could do something right after all.

He lavished attention on her foot for ten minutes, easing all the tension and pain from her muscles before he bent down and picked up her other foot, taking off the shoe and repeating the process. Her feet still ached, but they were thrumming with a kind of pleasant lightness. And, God, it felt nice, better, even, just to have his hands on her. His fingers stilled, and Bridget opened her eyes to look at him, surprised to realize that she was stretched across the booth, nearly flat on her back. Andrew's eyes twinkled down at her, and she tried, rather unsuccessfully, to convince herself that she felt nothing, that her stomach didn't just flip. She smiled back at him dazedly, hair fanning out behind her, more at ease than she expected to be. She was glad she'd met him, glad her sister had someone like him.

She felt like she had to be high again to be imagining this whole situation with Siobhan's husband massaging her feet. Only Bridget knew if she was high, she wouldn't be imagining this. She'd be doing more, and he wouldn't be Siobhan's husband in her drug-addled brain. She blinked, trying to clear the fog from her brain, but she still felt a little disoriented. His hands kneaded an especially tender part of her foot, and she let out a cry, part pleasure and part pain, involuntarily throwing her head back.

The moan was so loud that the door opened suddenly a moment later, and Frank the bouncer poked his head in, curious eyes scanning the room. Bridget and Andrew froze, both of them conscious and ashamed of the intimacy of their position. Frank's eyes widened a little when he took in the sight of Bridget more or less laying down, her feet in the customer's lap and hands. He stared a moment and then blinked before hurriedly shutting the door. Still vaguely mortified, Bridget stifled a laugh. Andrew did not. He snorted, laugh deepening, his body shaking with the laughter. His hands moved over her ankles and up her calves absently, up and then back again in a way that made Bridget's head swim. Underneath the humor and the thrills his laughter sent down her spine, there was a desperation to it, a sudden drunkenness Bridget was all too familiar with, the kind that comes from a deep reservoir of emptiness inside.

Bridget pushed herself up on her elbows, straightening into a sitting position. His hands were still trailing up and down her legs, the warmth of them not quite so comforting, but she was beginning to get used to it. Andrew sighed, his expression suddenly morose and mopey. He turned to her suddenly, his eyes big and dark, his pain clearly showing through like a compound fracture. "Tell me, how can I be _enough_ for someone?" he asked, letting the question hang in the air. His hand came down on her calf then so suddenly that it made her jump a little, but he didn't pay it any mind, lost in his thoughts, the alcohol finally catching up with him. "I just want to be enough for the women in my life, for my wife, my daughter... is that so much to ask?" he continued, turning his gaze on her, his hands finally stilling on her legs, leaning in towards her and staring at her so intently that it made her uncomfortable, made her skin prickle.

Bridget rocked back and forward on the seat a little, bringing one leg up underneath her. His hands still rested on her calf and ankle. Her whole being seemed to curve inward, all of her curling in on herself, making herself smaller. She shrugged, biting her lip, and meeting his gaze for one hot moment, something about it so poignant and painful that she has to look away. Maybe it's because she sees the same look in her eyes every day in the mirror when she thinks about everyone who's left her behind. Even he's going to leave her behind and forget all about her after the date. "I wish I knew," she murmured, unable to look at him, hating how pathetic she sounded.

In just a short period of time, he has managed to get under her skin in a way that no other men have in years, and then to go deeper still, rubbing at old wounds, reopening them and rubbing salt in her sores, making her ask questions, making her face all kinds of unpleasant truths about herself. He's shown her a world she never imagined she'd glimpse, giving her a bit of her sister back, which is worth a lot more than the five grand she'll be getting from him later. And her time and this illusion is all she can give him in return. It feels paltry in comparison.

Bridget turned away, moving out of his grasp, letting his hands drop. At this very moment, Andrew glanced over at her, taking in her defeated posture and dead eyes, and realized, with a pang, that she has never been good enough for anyone her whole life. It has never been more apparent that she is not his wife, no matter how much he wants to pretend, than in this one moment of clarity. Even if he hates it for ruining the illusion of Siobhan finally telling him the truth for _once_ in her life. Andrew cleared his throat, suddenly thinking the better of the whole scheme.

He was ridiculous to even suggest this; neither of them can pull this off, and what was he thinking? She wasn't Siobhan, and it was unfair to ask her to be something she wasn't, worse still to _pay_ her for betraying herself in that way. He opened his mouth, ready to call it all off, and then he saw the way she was staring at him, curious but with a hopeful gaze, her eyes big and bright green, almost like she expected something from him. He couldn't remember the last time his wife had looked at him like that, if she'd ever looked at him like she depended on him. And he _did_ want to help her, so he closed his mouth, looking away, and pulled a business card out of his pocket, turning to offer it to her.

Bridget picked up the card, holding it up to the light, straining a little to make out the words: his name, office address, phone number, and email. She shot him a questioning glance, and Andrew managed a smile somehow. His eyes were slanted, closed off from her somehow. He was really going to do this, was really going to take a stripper and make her over into his high-society wife. The thought was almost comical, clearly an idea conceived of booze on an empty stomach, and he would probably regret this when he woke up and realized he'd been seeing her through alcoholic filters and that she really didn't look a damn thing like his wife. "Text me tomorrow morning with your name and address."

She nodded dumbly, still unable to believe her luck. What were the odds of something like this happening? What were the odds of her sister's husband visiting the one club in Tahoe she worked at? It had to be almost astronomical. Bridget glanced heavenward, wondering if God was trying to send her a sign. Her brow furrowed a little as she wondered what it meant; was the message about Siobhan or Andrew or herself? This couldn't be a coincidence; it _had_ to be fate. Then she looked back over at Andrew, seeing the glaze of drunkenness in his eyes, and envying the dark oblivion that awaited him. Everything was much less real, much less painful in an alcoholic haze.

Bridget glanced up from the card again, summoning up all the nerve she could muster. "It'll be extra for, um, a happy ending..." she interjected anxiously, licking her lips and hoping for a bit of clarification. She needed to be very clear about this right now, and she honestly didn't know what she'd do if he still wanted it, but she had to put the option out there, had to by habit. She received the clarification she was seeking a moment later, after watching Andrew very, very carefully.

He just about came out of his skin at her words. Andrew flushed and pulled away from her as much as possible. Bridget tried not to let it get to her or to look back up again so he'd see her own matching embarrassed smile. "Oh, that... that won't be necessary. At all," he stuttered, practically tripping over the words in his haste to say them, turning his wedding ring around on his finger quickly, as if even the thought was cheating on Siobhan. Andrew knew enough about affairs to know that it was a slippery slope to go from admiring glances and emotional intimacy to intimacy of a more physical nature. A certain force and determination underlaid his words, and it almost made Bridget smile, his determination to stay faithful. His nervousness was almost endearing, and Bridget would've found it doubly so had she known he cheated on his first wife with his second, though at the time she thought him incapable of it. That was, of course, along the lines of what she'd expected and what she hoped he'd say, but it still surprised her to actually hear it.

She'd almost never heard of a man turning down a "happy ending," a rubdown, completion, full satisfaction guaranteed, whatever you wanted to call it. She cocked her head at him, needing to say it out loud to get herself to believe it. When she fooled around with customers, she didn't usually stray too far from the immediate vicinity. Dates like the one she'd arranged with him were rare, especially since her recent sobriety had given her thoughts a level of clarity she hadn't thought possible. "And let me get this straight... you're going to give me five thousand dollars for a night with a bonus, and I get free food and a shopping spree out of it." Andrew nodded, almost smiling, and Bridget continued to gape at him. "And I don't even have to do anything sexual," she repeated, still in disbelief, turning the card over in her hands.

Andrew frowned a little, uncomfortable every time she mentioned sexual favors, wondering why she found it so difficult to believe. He thought he'd been perfectly clear about his expectations. No one Andrew knew had ever accused him of being anything less than upfront, sometimes even to the point of being blunt, even though he had his secrets. He wasn't the type to renege on an agreement. "That's about it," he affirmed, shifting in the booth. The leather squeaked as he moved, and Bridget nodded, trying to keep herself from asking one more time. He was her sister's husband, after all; she should be able to trust him if the much-choosier Siobhan had picked him.

Bridget turned to face him, sliding closer to him, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Then I guess we have a deal, Mr. Martin," she pronounced, sliding his card into her bra thoughtlessly. She noticed the way Andrew's eyes followed and traced the movement, the way he swallowed hard, and it made her smile widen a little. It was somehow flattering to think that a man like him found _anything_ about her attractive. She held her hand out for a shake, trying not to wonder if he'd remember any of this tomorrow.

Andrew took her hand, shaking it (for, what, the second time that night?), and laughed mirthlessly. Even the tone of her voice and the way she pronounced his last name, indeed, everything from the darkly enigmatic look in her eyes to the waves in her hair, screamed Siobhan. "If you're going to be my wife," he drawled, pausing for a moment and turning her hand over. He brought her hand up to his lips, some part of him conscious that he would never even attempt such a move sober, and he kissed the back of her hand. The moment his lips, which were every bit as soft as they'd looked, touched her hand, Bridget's entire body broke out in goosebumps. He drew his lips from her hand slowly, lips lingering a moment against the skin, just long enough to make Bridget's whole being vibrate with some sort of nervous energy. "I think you can call me Andrew," he finished huskily, his fingers brushing over her bare fingers.

Not trusting herself with words, Bridget nodded slowly, leaning towards him in spite of herself, drawn in by the force of his eyes, a dark compulsion she didn't quite understand. It was like her whole body was burning, her every nerve on high, screaming alert, extrasensitive to his touch. Andrew found himself smiling at her. For a moment they merely stared at each other in silence, a silence that was so pregnant and full of endless possibilities. The moment was broken not with words, but by someone opening the door.

Bridget and Andrew both turned to face the door and the brighter light from outside instantly, like guilty children. Somewhere in that, he dropped her hand. It was Frank the bouncer again, and, in all honesty, Bridget was a bit relieved because she wasn't sure what she would've done if he hadn't opened that door. Frank cleared his throat, glancing from one to the other, noticing that Bridget seemed oddly embarrassed, and wondering what had transpired between them. He'd glanced in every now and then but hadn't seen anything special, which he'd thought was rather odd, given how much money the man had dropped to be alone with Bridget and Bridget's less-than-pristine reputation.

His voice was gruff as he turned to address Bridget. "Yo, Bridge, it's just about closin' time. If you wanna finish this up, you and your friend are gonna have to take it somewhere else," he said. Bridget glanced over to Andrew, a little bit mortified, and saw that even the tips of his ears were red at the suggestion. Bridget turned back to Frank and tried to give him a sweet smile, mouthing that she would just be a few more minutes. Frank fixed her with a pointed look, glancing momentarily at Andrew before nodding and turning away. He purposefully left the door open, making the point that he wouldn't come back again.

Bridget turned back to Andrew, who was eying the open door somewhat warily. Was he worried about his friends and what they might think? Bridget sidled in a bit closer to him, eying him carefully and deciding that he still looked a bit too pristine, like an action figure in mint condition. She put a finger under his chin, turning his cheek towards her, and leaned over, pressing her lips to his warm, faintly scratchy skin for a good moment, so that her lipstick would leave the inevitable mark on his cheek. She didn't dare to touch his hair, but she could make herself appear more disheveled if necessary.

Andrew almost turned, but the finger under his chin held him away from her. She pulled away a moment later, smiling almost apologetically. Andrew couldn't exactly make heads or tails of it or her intent. He'd been caught off-guard by the sudden kiss and the pull in his gut the lips-on-skin contact had caused. "Thanks for talking, Andrew. I had fun," Bridget told him, smiling a little still, pulling away more completely so that Andrew felt like he could think again. She'd meant it. The whole room smelled like her still, though, and she smelled nothing like his wife. No, Bridget's scent was more exotic, like jasmine and wildflowers and something musky, where Siobhan smelled like processed, powdery flowers, expensive cosmetics, and vanilla.

He blinked, remembering himself and where he was all of a sudden. He tried to smile and reached down into his pocket, scrambling a bit, and finally finding his wallet. Bridget raised her brows, wondering how much he was about to give her after already spending so much. Andrew leafed through the bills in his wallet; he didn't normally carry this much cash on him, but tonight had been a special night. He pulled out five hundreds, replacing his wallet and folding the bills. He started to hand them to Bridget, but she shook her head, suddenly uncomfortable with his generosity.

Him giving her five hundred dollars in tips meant he'd have tipped her $750 and that he'd spent nearly a thousand dollars on her company for the length of his visit. She'd made that much money on one night before, but never in such little time (or, what seemed like a short time, at any rate) or from one client. "I can't accept that," Bridget muttered, thinking of how he was family, and she hadn't even done that much, hadn't done anything to earn it. She hated feeling like she wasn't earning her keep. She didn't need any more, really, and he was just giving her all this money because he was too drunk to know better.

Andrew shook his head, thrusting the money towards her. A ghost of a smile passed over his face. "Consider it a down payment," Andrew countered. Bridget finished his sentence in her head: _in case you never see me again._ She could just imagine him saying it was fun or some other pithy blow-off phrase for when he came to his senses and realized that he didn't voluntarily want to associate with a stripper and ex-junkie in Tahoe. Andrew folded the bills further and reached over to slide them into her bra. She'd made this night almost bearable for him, her and the alcohol, and he was grateful (and Andrew had always been particularly generous when he was grateful). She opened her mouth to protest but stopped when she saw Andrew coming.

He leaned in closer still, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath as he slid the bills into her cleavage, his fingers following the curve of her breast. She jolted a little at the surprising intimacy of his touch. "For putting up with me and-" He licked his lips and continued blathering a bit, saying something she couldn't entirely make out. His fingers rested on her breast a bit too long as he marveled over the softness of the little bit of skin his fingers brushed against. Had Siobhan's skin ever felt that soft? It had been ages since he'd felt her. Andrew blinked sleepily, finally pulling his fingers away from her chest, and Bridget bent down abruptly and started to slip her shoes back on, needing the distance to regain the bits and pieces of sanity she was holding onto.

That being done, Bridget grabbed the babydoll and pulled it over her head before grabbing Andrew's arm and helping him stand. He wobbled a bit, and so did she, but he stood mostly still. His inebriation was mostly visible up close and personal. She didn't stop to see if any of his supposed friends were still around; he probably wouldn't want them seeing him like this, nor would he want to deal with them since it didn't seem like they were especially close friends. Besides, he was _her_ brother-in-law, and she could look after him perfectly fine. "Come on, Andrew," she muttered, helping him out of the room and, ultimately, the club, helping support him and keeping his gait steady until they reached the taxi stand outside.

She helped pour Andrew into a cab and didn't leave until he drove off; he was still together enough to give the driver his address. He didn't wave, but she did, well aware that it was probably the last time she would ever see him, despite his entreaty to call him tomorrow and set up something. She reached into her bra and pulled the card out, glancing at it for a moment and deciding she might as well give it a shot. She stared after the car for several moments, not noticing the draft or the leers and catcalls until she realized what she was doing, practically mooning after her sister's rich, gorgeous husband who was very clearly still in love with her sister in her underwear in front of a strip club in the middle of the night. When she snapped out of it, she flushed at her own idiocy, stuffing the card back into her bra, and hurriedly made her way back inside, skin still flushed and hot.

Bridget stumbled in, all excuses and gooseflesh, knees still weak, legs a bit wobbly, only to find that nearly everyone still in the place was staring at her. She saw a familiar face standing next to Frank, and she made a beeline for the duo. Mary Curtis was standing there, looking rather smug and expectant, eyes focused solely on Bridget. Bridget let out a short breath as she came up to face them, still a bit red. Mary shoved Bridget's arm a little when she was within reach. "Frankie here was just telling me about you and Mr. Big Spender," she said, smirking and wiggling her eyebrows, bumping into Frank's side. Frank and Mary had had an on-and-off thing for quite some time, and the two were pretty close.

Bridget tried her best not to cringe, well aware that she was about to face a stream of questions not unlike the Spanish Inquisition. She would've glowered at Frank, but she knew that he would be relatively intimidated. Mary leaned forward, tossing her coppery curls. "I got a pretty good look at him too," she continued, amused. "Nice ass. Good body... His face wasn't too bad either. Not to mention the money, honey." Bridget tensed a little at Mary's inventory, puzzled at her own outrage. Mary was her friend, one of her best friends. She shouldn't want to punch her for sizing Andrew up in the same way she had, albeit with understatements no doubt intended for Frank's benefit.

Strangely, Bridget also found that she wanted to point out just how handsome, well-dressed, and well-spoken Andrew was, almost like she wanted to brag about him. Not to mention the fact that she'd always found a man who could handle his liquor... both somewhat worrisome and terribly sexy. "Not to mention the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off you," Mary drawled, tapping Bridget's nose. Bridget scrunched up her face, already ready with the explanations that Mary would refuse to hear. That wasn't entirely true. Mary nudged her in the side. "He looks like the full package, Bridge. You gonna see him outside of the club?"

For some reason, Mary's approval made her proud. Bridget let her smile be her answer, though Frank frowned; he didn't particularly appreciate girls meeting customers outside of the club. "He is pretty great," she found herself murmuring before she could really think about it, still pleased at the mere thought of the semi-normal conversation she'd had on the job. She'd liked him, liked meeting him, and when you'd been doing this as long as she had, that sort of thing was rare. She brushed her cleavage absently where he'd slipped the roll of Benjamins into her bra.

Mary's grin widened, and she reached out to pat Bridget's arm. "You movin' on up, Bridge? He some new guy of yours?" Mary asked, her enthusiasm growing with each word. Mary was dear to Bridget's heart, more like a sister or mother than Shaylene, simply because she was more like Bridget and saw the world in a similar way. Shaylene was all confidence, kind like of a ray of sunshine, needing to take Bridget under her wing and help look after her. Shaylene was like a better, healthier version of Bridget with dreams and ambitions; all of Bridget's dreams and ambitions could be reduced to her continuing sobriety.

Mary was a mother, though, and she knew how to look after her. She'd seen the ugly side of things and knew how to comfort Bridget on the many nights she'd spent crying after her shifts. But what Mary lacked in other means she made up for in enthusiasm, in advice and giddiness. She was the kind of dreamer Bridget was at heart, always looking for the silver lining, always hoping for something better for Bridget, even when she didn't want that for herself.

Bridget wanted to laugh at Mary, at the thought that she might someday leave all of this behind. She didn't even dare to respond with a sarcastic "I wish." Instead, Bridget shook her head slowly, deciding not to tell Mary that she might be seeing him again tomorrow. Seeing one's brother-in-law in secret was generally frowned upon. "There's just one small problem with that," Bridget began, crossing her arm over her chest and grabbing Mary's arm, heading for the changing rooms so she could shake Frank off. Mary wasn't exactly known for her discretion either, but she wasn't one to judge, and Bridget needed to tell someone about it.

Mary began to protest immediately, unable to fathom that there could possibly be a problem because Bridget was so attractive and had such a great personality and any guy would be lucky to have her and blah blah blah. Bridget released her when they entered the dressing room, unable to suppress her irritation. She turned away to find her bag, cutting Mary off when she'd finally had enough of hearing her sing her praises. "He couldn't _be_ more off-limits," Bridget insisted, tearing off the babydoll once more, kicking off her shoes, and beginning to pull a comfortable flannel shirt out of her bag. She paused and turned to look at Mary. "He's married."

Her friend raised her brows but gave Bridget a look, raising her shoulders a little bit and beginning to look for her own clothes. Bridget knew what that look meant. It meant, hey, maybe you should give it a shot, don't let that stop you, and that was most assuredly not an option. Mary had dated a married man for a very long time, had kind of been his mistress, actually, and she'd been miserable. Bridget didn't want to fall into the same trap. She shook her head and sighed, pulling the shirt on and starting to button it up, her eyes serious as she stared back at Mary. "He's Siobhan's husband, Mare." She let the statement hang in the air for a moment.

Predictably, Mary's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. "Holy crap!" Mary was one of the few friends Bridget still had left who knew much about Siobhan. The whole sordid story had come out one night over drinks when Bridget was more than two sheets to the wind and had become a drunken, sobbing mess. Mary had been the first person to tell her what happened to Sean was an accident, and, though she could see why Siobhan was mad, being a single mother herself, it wasn't Bridget's fault. She'd said there was no good reason why Siobhan would hate her or wouldn't forgive her, and that if she didn't, it was Siobhan's fault, not hers. Because Sean wouldn't have wanted to drive the two people he loved most in the world so very far apart. And Bridget would be forever grateful to her for all that, if she could just bring herself to believe Mary.

Bridget sighed wearily, pulling her hair into a messy bun. "I _know_," she mumbled, starting to put on her pants with a trace of embarrassment. She didn't want questions, which made Mary the wrong person to tell, but Mary had always been a great sounding board, so Bridget answered all her questions to the best of her ability. It was all the penance she could do from here; she wasn't about to subject herself to telling Shaylene. She really hoped it didn't show just how into him she was, but, judging by the warning look Mary gave her, she'd probably heard about her earlier eagerness from someone like Frank.

In the end, Mary didn't have any answers for Bridget. She merely smiled sadly and gave her a look, patting her on the shoulder. "Be careful, Bridge," was all the wisdom she offered. Bridget sucked in a breath, hearing the things she'd left unspoken, knowing exactly what Mary meant. Getting involved further, going down that rabbit hole for just those traces of her sister, it could get dangerously out of hand and out of control. Chasing Siobhan now was the kind of thing that could destroy her, especially if she used her sister's husband to do it.

She didn't want to get in over her head here... but, still, Bridget couldn't help but be curious about the man her sister had married. What was their marriage like? And, judging based on the state of their union, what had her sister become? Would she even recognize Siobhan if she saw her now? Sure, she'd recognize her sister's face, of course, because it was her own... but otherwise, would she? Truthfully, Bridget wasn't sure she even knew her sister anymore. All she knew was that she wanted to, and maybe Andrew could help her do that.

Or maybe not.


	3. I Had No Choice But to Hear You

So, first off, I have to apologize a bit because his chapter didn't entirely turn out to be what I (or, probably, what you) expected. There's a lot less Bridget/Andrew interaction than I originally intended, but I kinda figured something like this might happen... so a lot of the chapter is mostly filler, and I really hope it isn't boring, but I kinda needed to set things up. And I feel like I needed to explain Bridget's life now a bit more... and, basically, Shaylene kinda came in and took over. So you also start to get a few mentions of some more familiar characters in this chapter, and you get some pretty strong hints about what happened with Bodaway and how that whole experience changed Bridget and Shaylene. I'm not sure yet, but I might decide to go into that a bit more if you all are interested.

The stuff about shopping in Lake Tahoe is true (I checked, and it was tedious... But it's how I know that Sparks, Nevada apparently once had a Saks Off 5th outlet). I was going to actually give Bridget a real address, but I don't know the Lake Tahoe area very well with all of its various places like Glenview and Incline Village and South Lake Tahoe and then Reno and Carson City and Sparks and all that, which basically just confuses me. I also don't consider myself an accurate judge of distances or house prices or anything remotely relevant to Nevada, so I dunno where I would have her live, especially since Lake Tahoe is divided between Nevada and California and made up of a lot of different towns and whatnot. So basically all you need to know about where she and Shay live is that they live in a nice house in the suburbs somewhere. It's nice, again, a two or three bedroom house (maybe Ranch style, given that they live in the West, but I personally hate that style, so, eh, we'll see) in a good neighborhood, probably somewhat open and not too big or too small. It gets a lot of light, and it has a nice, decent-sized yard and a porch... and, like, they're strippers, so they make good money... but it's not too pricey. It's like, homey affordable, shall we say.

_Next_ chapter will be the much-looked-forward-to Bridget and Andrew shopping adventure. I might have a bit of them having dinner or in the car or something, but I'm not sure. What I do know is that next chapter you will get to see a peek of Andrew's life, namely in the form of Siobhan, who calls while he's with Bridget... which may start to change Bridget's perspective on things. And that's where it starts to get interesting. Well, I mean, I hope it was already interesting, but you get the point.

And, finally, I don't own Ringer, or the shirt Bridget's wearing in the beginning, or any of the characters that you recognize, but I do own the plot and anything it is clear that I have invented. I'm glad to know that so many of you have put my story on your favorites and alerts list, but it would also be really nice to hear from more of you! I know, blech, the inevitable plea for reviews, but I do really appreciate them. Thanks so much, and I hope you enjoy it.

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><p>Bridget woke up to the smell of breakfast. With her eyes still closed, she inhaled the smell of eggs and pancakes deeply. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively, and Bridget sat up in bed, stretching her arms over her head in a fluid moment and letting out a loud yawn. She turned to glance at her clock and frowned once she saw that it was a few minutes past nine-thirty, flopping back down onto the bed and letting out a sigh. Bridget had gotten in at half-past four last night, thanks to all the questions from nosy coworkers, and she was still exhausted and sore from her shift last night. She pouted a little, wiggling her toes, somewhat surprised to find that her feet hurt less than usual.<p>

Probably because of the foot massage. The memories came crashing back to her in a flash, and Bridget forced herself to get out of bed, shrugging on an old flannel shirt and doing up the buttons as she headed out into the kitchen. She glanced down at the black, white, and orange plaid, a bit chagrined when she remembered it had once belonged to Dylan. Dylan whom she tried to avoid thinking about at all costs because thinking about him only led to painful memories and made her want to drink the nearest semi-alcoholic liquid she could find until she couldn't think anymore. She padded into the kitchen and found her roommate, Shaylene Briggs, standing in front of the stove. "Morning," Bridget muttered, heading for the fridge.

She was still debating between something caffeinated or juice when Shaylene turned around suddenly, startled. "Bridget! I didn't know you were up." It wasn't like Bridget to wake up early, especially after a late shift, but, then again, she was rarely roused by the smell of breakfast either. Bridget blinked blearily, wondering if Shaylene was making breakfast for her boyfriend. She hadn't seen Vic's car out front last night, and she didn't see any signs of him being around, especially since Shay was wearing more clothes than she was. Bridget shrugged, opening up the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of orange juice.

"You got in late last night," Shaylene continued conversationally, glancing at her occasionally out of the corner of her eye. Bridget opened the cabinet to get a glass, frowning to herself and wondering what Shay was up to. Bridget nodded unenthusiastically and started to pour herself a glass of orange juice at the counter, replacing the carton mindlessly. She wasn't exactly functioning on upper levels yet. She took a sip of her orange juice and made a face; orange juice tasted much better with a vodka chaser, but she was off the sauce now.

She was glad to be alcohol-free, but she wished someone would've told her in rehab that it would suck this much, that she would have to learn how to have fun and function all over again. "Did you bring a guy home?" Shaylene asked in the same faux-casual tone. Bridget's gaze cut over to her friend, wondering what she was getting at. Shaylene pretended she was actually super interested in turning the scrambled eggs, but Bridget wasn't fooled. Truthfully, Shay had been watching her like this since she'd gotten out of rehab and probably before that, but that didn't mean Bridget was used to it. And today more than other days it made her want to scream.

Bridget fought the urge to roll her eyes and shook her head no instead, blandly taking another sip of orange juice. God, she wanted some vodka to take the edge off. What she wouldn't give... Once again Shaylene's voice snapped her out of her alcohol-flavored dreams, sweet as sugar, sweeter than the juice she was currently drinking. "It's just... that's a man's shirt, and you seem... different," she continued a bit more hesitantly. Bridget's cheeks colored guiltily in spite of herself, and she tried very hard to cast all thoughts of men from her mind, tugging self-consciously at the old shirt. Bridget sighed and walked over to the kitchen table, sitting down and primly crossing one leg over the other. She could sense the lecture coming from a mile away.

She hadn't actually brought a guy home in that sense more or less since before rehab. She hadn't been with anyone since before rehab, except for a regrettable yet satisfying mistake with Malcolm, one of the counselors and her NA sponsor, three months ago. It was the first sober sex she'd had in years, and apparently sobriety made the mistake apparent even more quickly, as the reality of the situation had come crashing down on her pretty much as soon as it was over. They'd both known it wasn't going to work, that nothing could come of it.

Besides, like Malcolm said, all too understandingly, she needed to work on her recovery first and then her relationships. Sometimes she thought about it and wondered whether she was alone in her little crush, given the way he'd all but jumped at the out she'd given him. Still, it was her longest dry spell in years, possibly her entire life. Bridget heard the scrapes and clangs of pots and pans and plates and then the sound of her roommate's footsteps, and she glanced up a moment later to find Shaylene in front of her and holding out a plate loaded down with scrambled eggs and pancakes.

Shaylene still thought she was too thin and was trying to get her to eat more, had been trying for months, but the ravages of Bridget's addictions had messed up most of her bodily systems, so it wasn't doing much. She set the plate down in front of Bridget before turning back to make herself a plate. Bridget stared down at her foot, still hot and warm, and wished for a moment that Shaylene had thought to fry up some bacon. Bacon was her favorite. Shaylene returned a minute or so later with coffee and a plate of her own and slid into the seat directly across from Bridget. Her blue-green stare was piercing and familiar as usual, and Bridget looked down at her plate once more, picking up her fork and beginning to spear some eggs. "I heard about last night. From Dezzie."

Bridget's eyes shot up, and she scowled at Shaylene. The fork was midway to her mouth. "I don't know what you heard, but Destiny doesn't know anything," Bridget retorted a bit irritably. Destiny Munroe was one of the younger girls, a big-breasted overtanned bleach-blonde who was well known around the club for being fast and flashy. She was also the gossip queen of the club, the one most likely to steal customers or make up nasty rumors behind your back. Predictably, Bridget couldn't stand her from her trashy sparkle highlights to her fake attitude and acrylic nails, and she preferred to interact with her as little as humanly possible.

She shoveled food into her mouth partly to avoid having to elaborate further and partly to hear what exactly Dezzie had told Shaylene. Shaylene, on the other hand, was calm as she began to cut her pancakes. "She said you were all over this lonely middle-aged guy. Apparently he turned down every other girl in the place's offer, but he was with you for _hours_ in one of the private rooms?" Shaylene continued pointedly, giving Bridget a look. Bridget fought down a grimace; she knew what that look suggested. Her jaw tightened a little; of course that tramp Dezzie would try and downplay Andrew's attractive qualities like she knew a damn thing about him. Bridget had been up on the stage when Andrew had rejected Destiny's rather crude offer of a lap dance, and she'd relished his rather curt dismissal of her.

He'd given Destiny this priceless look, as if he were unable to believe her crassness or that she thought she could actually tempt him. Bridget just wished she could've heard what he said because, from what she knew of Andrew, it was almost certain to have been something very clever and just polite enough for the insult to pass right over her head. "She said he was practically dripping with money... and that Frank heard moaning coming from your room. And I heard he spent over a grand last night... most of it on you?" Shaylene added a few moments later, the implication and incredulity in her voice now unmistakable. Bridget pursed her lips, surprised at the amount of truth in the tale. "You took him outside and came back five minutes later looking dazed? Any of this ringing a bell, Bridge?" Shay continued impatiently.

Bridget rolled her eyes and swallowed the food that was in her mouth. "It's not what Dezzie made it out to be, Shay. She's just jealous he didn't go for her," Bridget rejoined, tossing her hair and reaching out for the syrup to slather on her pancakes. Apparently she'd worked up quite an appetite last night. Shaylene gave her friend a skeptical look, taking a sip of her coffee. Bridget shrugged a bit defensively, pouring a bit too much maple syrup (or was it, like her, just an imitation of the real thing? The question caught in her throat and _stung_) on her pancakes. "He was a nice guy, practically a perfect gentleman. Only had eyes for me 'cause I look like his wife." Shaylene took another sip of her coffee and continued to give her that same skeptical look, like she knew better than to believe her.

Bridget frowned at her friend, throwing back half of her orange juice and wincing at the overly acidic citrus infusion. She felt a bit offended that Shay didn't believe her, but ultimately she supposed she couldn't blame her. After all, Bridget had been an addict and a master liar for _years_; she knew how to hide the truth. "Yeah, he was loaded, and maybe there was a time I would've boned him... but I didn't. I only even gave him one lap dance," she said bluntly, artlessly, with a dismissive little wave.

Of course, she neglected to mention that she would've in a heartbeat... if he wasn't her _brother_-_in_-_law_... and it wasn't like Shaylene didn't know that she did "extras" sometimes, had done a few recently that hadn't involved screwing the guy, as Bridget was trying to wean herself from that particular type of bad behavior. Bodaway hadn't cared about turning tricks as long as he turned a profit from it, but clubs like this one would fire her if she was caught, as Shaylene so loved to remind her. Hence why Bridget usually didn't and hadn't fooled around much in the VIP room.

At Shaylene's still disbelieving glance, Bridget sighed wearily, stabbing her pancakes with a bit more violence than usual. "On the main floor. Still wearing my clothes. It wasn't a biggie." Shaylene tilted her head and continued to give her the same look, and Bridget brought a bit of pancake to her mouth, pursing her lips faintly. Her lips curved into a small smile. "Well, _actually_..." She'd been unable to resist that one, and it was so hard to wipe the naughty look off of her face at the reminder of those few minutes she'd been able to be all over and around Andrew, those idyllic moments full of delicious promise before she knew who he was.

Shaylene's eyes narrowed, and she did not look quite so amused. Bridget's wry smile fell, and she popped the piece of pancake into her mouth unhappily. Sometimes she wondered where Shaylene got off judging her. Yeah, so okay maybe she'd done some things that made her look like a stereotype stripper, things that made it bad for all of them... but if that was true, then why hadn't Shaylene stopped stripping and gone after that real estate license she was always harping about, especially now that she had Victor? Shay had dreams and options, and she might as well pursue them. Bridget chewed thoughtfully, wondering how to tell Shay in a way that would actually make her believe her.

"God, Shay, I don't have sex in the champagne room, and I told you already, I didn't screw him," Bridget all but snapped. It'd be one thing if she was getting the Spanish Inquisition and judgment worthy of a priest if she'd actually done him, but she hadn't, and that was the frustrating part—getting judged when she hadn't even really gotten to enjoy him. Not that he was at all hers to enjoy, but still. Bridget rested one elbow on the table, resting her face on her hand and blowing her sidebangs out of her face. "Though not for a lack of trying," she muttered half under her breath, gazing out the window and trying not to imagine how it would've been. She could _not_ fantasize about her sister's husband. That was probably a mortal sin, not like she hadn't broken almost every other one of the Ten Commandments already.

She felt rather than saw Shaylene's somewhat incredulous (was Shay surprised that he hadn't taken her up on it?) and judgmental expression, and Bridget turned to face her roommate, tired. She let a smile creep up on her face at the memories. "You should've seen him, Shay," she murmured, shaking her head in faint disbelief. "He was so effing gorgeous and wearing this great suit and..." Bridget cleared her throat, trying not to think too much about how well the suit had been tailored, how well it flattered his physique. Shaylene's brows shot up, and a strange expression passed over her face, but Bridget paid it little mind. "And he had this dead sexy British accent-"

Shaylene had seen a great many things in her illustrious career as a stripper, including her life flashing before her eyes when Bodaway Macawi had had his hands around her neck in his basement, but she had never seen that dreamy expression on Bridget's face when she wasn't high. Her friend's voice seemed lower, more girlish, distracted. It both worried and disturbed her; Bridget was not a sentimental girl, not the type to have stars in her eyes or illusions about anything, but here she was, getting her hopes up over some man. The man himself seemed a bit too good to be true, from what she'd half-heard. "-And a wedding ring, I hear," Shaylene interjected, giving her a knowing look.

Bridget froze. She hadn't forgotten, of course, that he was married or her sister's husband and thus entirely off-limits, but there was something sobering about Shaylene knowing he had a wife too. Married men were pretty common in their line of work, and both of them knew full well that wedding bands and bonds only went so far. Bridget tried her best to relax, swallowing hard, and nodded, picking at her eggs distractedly. She wished she could just dish to some girlfriend about this, because meeting Andrew was probably the best thing that had happened to her—personally or professionally—since she'd quit working at Club Caged and had gotten sober.

"But you know what the best thing about him was?" Bridget said a moment later, breaking their impromptu silence. Shaylene shook her head, and Bridget allowed herself a chuckle, thinking it over. She'd liked having a real conversation with him. She'd enjoyed getting to know her brother-in-law a bit, to use him to find out a bit more about Siobhan. She'd liked the money too and his offer for this weekend... but none of that was what she'd liked best about him, the reason her cheeks flushed just now thinking about it. "He asked me what _he_ could do for me," Bridget pronounced just shy of rapturously.

Shaylene's mama bear instincts kicked in, and she was instantaneously suspicious. She dropped her fork abruptly, leaning halfway across the table and staring directly into Bridget's eyes. "Come on, Bridget, you're no wide-eyed virgin. You know he was only saying that because he wanted something from you," Shaylene insisted, moving her head this way and that to try to look Bridget in the eyes when she was so clearly trying to avoid her gaze. Then it hit her, and Shaylene's mouth dropped open. "You let him touch you," she said accusingly.

Bridget froze, confirming her guilt, biting her lip and looking away, playing with her food. But then she frowned, thinking about it and wondering why Shaylene looked so astounded that she'd let him touch her. Shay had more or less intimated that Bridget had had sex with him earlier, and she'd scarcely batted an eyelash... but any kind of touching, especially the innocent (on his end) kind that had happened, and she freaked out? Bridget looked up, holding her head high, and let out a jaded sigh. "You know my policy, Shaylene. It's the club's policy too," she said, picking up her glass again. The club's policy was no touching except at the dancer's discretion (well, except for lap dances, she supposed). For some reason the words didn't fully satisfy her.

"What did you let him do?" There was no mistaking the blunt, naked accusation in her voice, the way it rose and almost snapped like that of an angry mother prepared to yell at her for making bad decisions. Not that Bridget's mother had cared about her actions for many, many years, even when she was alive. It felt a bit like a slap in the face.

Bridget's brow furrowed as she tried to remember where she'd let Andrew touch. All of last night seemed like a haze now. She remembered putting his hands on her waist during the lap dance, how firm his grip had been. Another man would've tried to take liberties, to push her further. She remembered his arm coming up around her as she helped him out of the club, the way he leaned his weight on her as they waited for the cab. She remembered him removing her hand a few times, throwing it back at her and shaming her, but she also remembered him taking her hand oh so gently, tenderly. He'd shaken her hand firmly three times or so during their introduction and agreements.

She remembered him leaning into her touch just as she remembered his cheek resting against hers for one cool moment. She remembered the way his hand brushed against her skin and lingered just a few moments too long as he pushed the bills into her underwear, turning mundane transactions suddenly sensual. He'd pushed her off with a force that surprised her too, pushed her away and drew back time and time again. Yet, at the same time, she remembered him threading his fingers through her hair, his hand resting nonchalantly on the back of her neck almost possessively, familiarly, almost as if he knew her.

And Bridget supposed he sort of did, even though he knew nothing about her, because he knew Siobhan.

She remembered with a pang, biting down hard on her bottom lip, just how soft his skin really was. She'd liked the way his hands felt on her just a bit too much. Bridget wasn't going to tell Shaylene that particular secret. She remembered his hands massaging her feet, trailing over her calves and ankles. Bridget let out a distracted sigh, absently rubbing the back of her neck as if she missed his touch. She heard Shaylene clear her throat, and Bridget's head shot up, eyes going wide. Get your head out of the clouds, Bridge. She let out a breath, huffing a bit. "He didn't touch any of the goodies, if that's what you're thinking. We were strictly PG," Bridget insisted firmly.

Her lack of specifics had raised Shaylene's alarms and her menacing expression, so Bridget closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath to suppress the fury. "What do you want me to say, Shay? The sexiest thing he did was either massage my feet or kiss my hand. He pretty much treated me like a normal person," Bridget continued, rolling her eyes and shoveling more food into her mouth. Shaylene's eyebrows shot up at this, and Bridget gave her a look, knowing what she was going to intimate before she said it. "None of which requires or leads to an invitation between my legs, Shay. No one had an orgasm. Not even him. Jeez," Bridget interjected coolly. She loved Shaylene, she really did, but she was beginning to wish she'd just gone back to bed.

Shaylene seemed somewhat pacified, but she was still a bit too skeptical for Bridget's liking. Then again, going over that last sentence in her head, perhaps she could've done a bit more to reassure her. Bridget went back to cutting her pancakes, not quite sure how to take the silence, so she missed Shaylene's contemplative stare, the way her eyes coolly took Bridget in from head-to-toe: hair wavy and disheveled from sleep, the men's shirt hanging off a shoulder, flashes of last night's lingerie underneath, some smudges of last night's make-up still on her face. Shaylene wasn't stupid; she could tell that her best friend was keeping something from her.

It hit her suddenly as she regarded Bridget in silence. "You _like_ him," Shaylene stated disbelievingly, setting her coffee down. Shaylene watched Bridget carefully. It had been a very long time since she'd seen Bridget in a relationship; in fact, Shaylene had trouble remembering whether Bridget had ever had any sort of relationship, serious or not, in the years she'd known her. As much as Shaylene wanted her friend to be happy, safe, and secure in a serious committed relationship, she wasn't sure that was what Bridget wanted or whether or not it was even in the cards for her. Besides, relationships with customers never worked out, and she didn't want Bridget to get hurt or in over her head here.

Bridget choked on the pancake, which suddenly felt and tasted like gruel or the sticky, flavorless oatmeal of her childhood (all they could afford for breakfast) in her mouth. Her head shot up abruptly, eyes widening in horror, meeting Shaylene's for a brief moment before Bridget looked down, still mortified. She tried to swallow, coughing a bit, finding it difficult to breathe, and then Bridget patted herself on the back, reaching for her orange juice to hopefully make the pancake go down easier. Tears came to her eyes, and her throat was sore, but eventually she could breathe properly. "What? No, I _don't_," Bridget gasped out, rubbing her throat and averting her gaze. How could she? She barely knew him, after all.

Shaylene snorted. "Yes, you do. You're totally blushing!" Bridget reached up to feel her cheeks and was surprised to find that they felt hot. Shaylene's expression turned a bit smug, and Bridget sighed and shoveled eggs into her mouth. "I didn't even know you could blush," Shaylene continued teasingly. Bridget's eyes narrowed, and she scowled in response, cheeks puffed out with eggs. She would've denied it, of course, since Shaylene was completely and totally wrong about her liking some guy she'd barely met who was her sister's man... but her mouth was full, and Shaylene had just reminded her of something.

Bridget reached into her shirt and bra, causing Shaylene to raise her brows, and pulled out the business card. It stuck to her skin faintly, so she had to pry it away from her breast and straighten it out a bit. In the daylight she saw that it had his cell phone number on it, and she bit her lip, trying to remember where she'd put her phone after coming back last night. He had said to call him in the morning. Turning the card over in her fingers again and again, Bridget rose and left the table, heading back to her room. She ignored Shaylene's calling after her and found her phone, glancing at the card and beginning to dial his number.

She paused with her finger over the dial button, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip and debating the wisdom of calling him. Was she really going to do this? Something in her gut told her that it could only end badly, and her gut tended to be right. Her gut instinct was, after all, the reason why she and Shaylene were both alive right now. However, she had made him a promise, and he was family... and lonely... so could she really break her word to him?

Besides, getting paid to pretend to be her sister, to find out about her life now and her husband... plus a chance to go to some swanky benefit with quite possibly the most interesting man she'd met in years? Could she really turn all of that easy money down? Bridget sighed, walking over to her bedroom door and shutting and locking it. Shaylene was definitely not above wrestling the phone out of her hands, which Bridget usually appreciated when she'd been drunk-dialing, but now she knew what she was doing. She only thought she knew what she was getting into. And so, before she could make an excuse to chicken out, Bridget pressed the green button.

It started ringing. Once then twice, then a third time, a fourth, a fifth... and just when she thought he wasn't going to pick up, she heard his voice. His voice was hoarse and sleepy, and, ugh, was Bridget getting goosebumps? "Andrew Martin. Who is this?" he asked a bit brusquely. A weary Andrew rubbed his brow, dragging a hand through his hair. It had been a mistake to drink that much last night. He hadn't recognized the number, but his phone told him it was a local number. He supposed it could be some business associate or acquaintance; either way, he hoped he didn't sound like he'd just woken up. Semi-vacation or not, Andrew Martin was the sort of man who was up when the markets opened.

Bridget swallowed hard and forced herself to speak, feeling suddenly very flustered. What if he didn't even remember? This sort of thing should've come naturally for her, but she'd never been very great on the phone, much less while having an ordinary conversation. "Hi," she said brightly, perhaps a bit more flirtatiously than she intended. Bridget curled a strand of hair around her finger absently. "This is, um, Bridget. From last night?" She had to stop herself from crossing her fingers, biting her lip and hoping he'd remembered.

Andrew was silent for a moment, sitting up in his hotel room bed abruptly, straining to remember. His head ached from indulging in a bit too much Scotch, but he hadn't been completely insensible last night. He licked his parched lips, thinking, trying to place the familiar name. He remembered in stages. She'd been a woman with golden hair and green eyes, and she'd looked just like Siobhan... or had he imagined that? He always missed Siobhan when he was away on trips, and she couldn't have looked _that_ much like his wife, after all. His cheeks colored faintly as he remembered her winding around him, touching him in ways his wife hadn't in a long time. He tried not to cringe thinking about it, tried not to think about the things he told her, how he felt so at ease with a familiar-looking stranger. "Yeah, I remember," he said gruffly, trying to be dismissive. He'd given her his phone number?

Bridget blinked, glad he'd remembered but having no idea what to say next. She licked her lips, forcing herself to sit down on her bed so she didn't pace. "You, uh, told me to call you. To text you with my address so that we can um... go shopping?" Bridget continued hesitantly, feeling very much like a fish out of water. Bridget had never taken any customers home, and out of those she'd fooled around with (well, the ones she remembered), that had generally not occurred very far from the club, oftentimes in a car or alley or cheap motel. But this, this was new.

Andrew blinked as it came back to him, and this time he actually did wince. He'd asked her to pretend to be his wife for tomorrow's benefit. That had clearly been the alcohol talking. Even if he could be sure she actually did look enough like his wife to pass for Siobhan, she had none of the training or characteristics that his wife did. He was a fool to even think he could pay a stripper to be his date for the night. God, he was pathetic. If Andrew had been close enough to the wall, he would've banged his head against it, but as it was, he settled for banging the back of his head against his headboard. "Yes, I did say that," he drawled, rubbing his chin and trying to think about his next word. He'd given the girl his number, for God's sake!

He tried to recall her face, but the countenance that came to mind was exactly the same as his wife's face... and that couldn't be right. Imagine if he ever told Siobhan he'd mistaken a stripper for her! The mere thought of his wife's undoubtedly priceless reaction brought a slight smile to his face; there was a small, mean part of him that sought to see snobby, judgmental, perfect Siobhan humbled and brought to her knees. Andrew cleared his throat, and an uncertain Bridget crossed and uncrossed her legs, waiting for his next word. "Bridget... could you, uh... send me a photograph of you?" he asked haltingly, hoping he hadn't offended her by asking. Bridget merely blinked, wondering what _that_ meant and what kind of photo he wanted. "I just... the alcohol made my memories of last night a bit fuzzy," Andrew continued apologetically, rubbing his brow.

Bridget frowned a little, though she wasn't exactly surprised, given the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. She was one of few people she knew who could drink that much without blacking out or having memory loss, not that that tolerance was something to be proud of. She sighed. "Okay. I'm going to hang up now, and I'll take the picture and send it to you in a minute or so. Then you call me back," she said blandly, wondering if he would actually bother to call back. Maybe she wasn't the only one with doubts about the wisdom of this particular plan.

Andrew muttered something, and Bridget hung up, not paying him much attention. She turned, instead, to her mirror, wondering how she should look in the photo. She examined herself with a critical eye; dark circles under her eyes, unwashed, no make-up except what remained from last night, her hair wild and messy and dirty, wearing nothing but last night's lingerie and a button-up that had once belonged to her sister's ex... oh, the irony! Not the worst she'd ever looked, but not the greatest either. Did he want to see her looking like her sister, with her hair up and in some prim sort of bun, looking polished and perfectly put-together? Or did he want to see _her_, this stranger he was asking for a favor?

Her frown deepened as she twirled her hair around in her hand, twisting it into a makeshift bun behind her head. Her reflection frowned back at her, and she saw a trace of Siobhan staring back at her in the mirror, her gaze reproachful, as if she knew what her sister was considering. Sometimes she saw her sister looking back at her in the mirror, still a part of her, as if she was somehow a shade of Bridget still. Bridget released her hair, shaking it out, shaken. Best to do it quickly then, she thought, running a hand through her hair, tugging on Dylan's old shirt to expose her collarbone and a hint of cleavage.

Then she turned on the photo option, positioned her cellphone camera just right and snapped a picture of herself. She turned the phone around, glancing at the picture and deeming it good enough, and then she pressed the fateful button to send the picture to Andrew. Maybe he would like what he saw, and maybe he wouldn't. It shouldn't matter at all to her, what he thought, but she found herself biting her lip, anxious already, hoping he'd call.

Andrew shifted uncomfortably in the strange bed. He was staying in the nicest hotel in Tahoe, but it brought back unpleasant memories. Almost the minute after touching down at the airport in Reno, he'd known that coming here was a mistake. Just being here without her rubbed his every nerve raw. Andrew's mood was darkening so rapidly that he was beginning to contemplate cracking open the minibar, but the chime of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He bent down to grab it and opened the picture attachment, not expecting much. He nearly jumped when it opened and the smiling face of his wife stared right back at him.

Except, he reminded himself, trying to still his racing heartbeat, she couldn't _possibly_ be his wife, since she was in a house he'd never seen before, and Siobhan hadn't smiled at him even like that in ages. A glance at the wavy, messy hair and mostly bare shoulders (he could just barely make out a hint of plaid around her shoulders) gave further confirmation of this fact. Nonetheless, he felt the same powerful, achingly familiar pull of attraction gazing at her picture as he did looking at his wife. He gazed at the photo for a minute, wondering if the woman had somehow gotten her hands on a photo of his wife from several years ago, but the smudged remnants of eyeliner and the cherry red strap of the bra the dancer had been wearing last night seemed to indicate otherwise. He barely knew his wife anymore, but he knew enough to know that Siobhan wouldn't be caught dead looking like that or, indeed, looking anything less than completely perfect.

He paused with his finger over the dial, wondering whether or not he wasn't making a bigger mistake by doing this. The whole idea was completely insane and possibly one of the more ridiculous things he'd ever considered doing: hiring a stranger to play his wife. But, then again, it was in his nature to take risks, and it usually paid off for him. And was it really that selfish for him to want his wife to be by his side when he ached for her? Andrew exhaled deeply and pressed the button before he could decide otherwise or talk himself out of it.

Bridget jumped at the sound of the buzzing phone and picked it up on the second ring, breathless with nerves. "Hey, Andrew," she said a bit more breathily than she'd intended, barely able to mask her surprise that he'd actually called. She'd half expected him to just write her off as a stripper and a liability (one of the reasons why she didn't get asked out a lot). Andrew sucked in a breath; she even sounded like Siobhan on the phone. He wondered how he'd missed that, given the way his stomach knotted up when she said his name like that, almost in a gasp. Had Siobhan ever said his name like that?

Bridget forced herself to sit down on her bed, wrapping her fingers around the iron bedpost idly, waiting for him to say something. Andrew took a deep breath, sliding backward on his bed, leaning his back delicately against the headboard for support. It was harder than it should've been to push her name past his lips when Siobhan's name was the one lingering in the back of his head. "Hello again, Bridget," he managed somewhat awkwardly, clearing his throat once he realized how strained his voice was. For whatever reason, Andrew felt like a nervous schoolboy talking to her; a part of him was afraid she'd shut him down the same way Siobhan always did, and he was second-guessing everything.

He paused for a moment before he was able to muster up his best charming act. She wasn't the only one good at pretending, after all. "I believe we had a deal," he continued in the low and even, perfectly inoffensive and properly modulated voice he used to land clients. In normal speech, he was usually a bit more gruff with a somewhat musical lilt to his words, but he put it on a little bit because it was important that he sound posh, confident, and intelligent when delivering his pitch. Bridget nodded before realizing he couldn't see her. "Tell me your address, and I'll pick you up in-" He glanced at the clock to find that it was a few minutes before ten o'clock, and he paused for a minute, trying to estimate how many minutes it would be before he looked presentable. "-Twenty to thirty minutes, give or take."

Bridget bit down hard on her bottom lip, trying to suppress the uncontrollable excitement that was bubbling up in her chest. She glanced at her own reflection and frowned, wondering how she could possibly get ready in that amount of time. She stopped herself from wondering further by giving him her address, lest she start panicking over what to wear and how to do her hair and whether or not she should consciously try to look like Siobhan. She patiently explained to him how to get to her house while walking over to her closet to examine her wardrobe and look for suitable clothing. Half of her closet was dedicated to stripper clothes, and the other half was the comfortable stuff she actually wore, with a few nicer pieces for formal events or work, back when she was temping. She tried not to cringe at her lack of selection, or at the fact that most of her non-stripper clothing consisted of denim, flannel, or sweatshirts and sweatpants.

Andrew had written down her address and directions on the hotel paper by his bedside. He had a rental car with GPS, so he probably hadn't even needed the directions, but it was still nice of her to tell him the best way to get there. He got out of bed, setting the notepad back down on the end table, and headed for his suitcase. He hadn't packed much casual clothes in anticipation of spending most of his time talking business, but he had a few things for the weekend. "The event's a dinner, but it's a bit less formal... definitely more cocktail than black-tie, though. What store would be best for that sort of thing?" Andrew asked, his tone brisk and businesslike as he sifted through the contents of his suitcase, fishing out a pale blue striped button-up, belt, and black slacks.

Bridget had selected a pair of black skinny jeans, figuring she couldn't go wrong there. She frowned in contemplation; Tahoe and the surrounding area, unfortunately, did not have a lot of upscale clothing shops. The only places she could even think of that would have formal clothing were wedding boutiques and Dillard's, both of which probably sold suitable dresses but not the kind of fancy clothing Andrew expected her to wear. Heaven forbid, after all, that someone's wife said that Siobhan Martin shopped at Dillard's. "Well, for the kind of thing you're looking for, if you want designer, we'd have to go to San Francisco," Bridget explained quietly. "Tahoe's not much for shopping unless you're a skier." Which was probably why her closet looked the way it did.

Andrew frowned; this was an unexpected wrinkle in his admittedly not-well-thought-out plan. He grabbed socks and underwear from his suitcase, setting them on the bed along with the rest of his clothes. He picked up his Blackberry to check if what she said was true and found out, after a few clicks, that she was right. Aside from boutiques, a department store, and a couple of outlet malls, Tahoe didn't have much to offer, and certainly nothing his wife would deign to wear nowadays. Sometimes he wondered how she had ever lived here without his money. "How far away is San Francisco?" he asked, feeling a bit disoriented.

She'd decided that she should dress a bit nicer than usual so that Andrew would think of her as a real person and the people in the shops would think she belonged there with him. "About three and a half hours if you don't hit traffic. We're more likely to hit traffic leaving," she continued, pulling a red tank-top with thin straps out of her closet and holding it up to her chest. The color was nice, but maybe he'd seen her in red too much? Bridget wrinkled her nose and headed back to her closet, pulling out a dark gray cardigan just in case. The desert was terribly hot during the day but it cooled down at night, and San Francisco could be a bit breezy and chilly; it was best to be prepared.

Andrew nodded dully. He didn't have anything better to do, after all, and it wasn't as if he didn't have his phone in case something came up. He did actually like driving and missed having the opportunity to drive in the city, even though his apartment came with a very expensive parking space. He hadn't been on a real road trip in ages, if one excluded the increasingly less-frequent drives to the Hamptons; maybe it could be fun. "Then I guess we're going to San Francisco," he said, his voice equal parts resigned and hopeful. It was amazing how she had him doing what she wanted, just like his wife, less than a day after they'd met. "We'll get something to eat on the way, and I'll see you in about thirty minutes," he pronounced, rather surprised to find that he was actually looking forward to it.

Bridget smiled, already thinking of places to stop. He would probably want something they could take on the road with them, like sandwiches or fast food... not that she especially saw him as being the sort of man who would walk into Subway or McDonald's and place an order. Then again, she didn't know as much about him or wealthy people as her sister did, so maybe that was the sort of thing he did all the time, for all she knew. "Okay, I'll see you then. Bye Andrew," a somewhat disbelieving Bridget murmured. Andrew said goodbye back, and then he hung up, and Bridget just stared at the phone in awe for a moment before she shook herself out of it and went to shower.

She emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later in her underwear, hair dry and falling in beachy waves. She pulled on the clothes she'd chosen and stashed the sweater, her wallet, her phone, some cosmetics, sunglasses, and other randomly useful items in one of her bigger purses. The purse was, coincidentally, some designer, albeit not one Bridget had ever heard of. She'd gotten it on a trip to Vegas a while ago, a girls vacation with Shay a couple months ago. Bridget then slipped on some gold gladiator sandals and headed out to talk to Shaylene, largely with the intention of getting her to help her do her make-up.

Shaylene was running the dishwasher when she came back and turned around expectantly as Bridget set her bag down on the table and pulled out the make-up, item by item. Bridget figured she had about fifteen minutes left to make herself look expensive, which meant flawless skin, beigey-gold eyeshadow, thin eyeliner (for which she needed Shaylene's help), and pink, glossy lips. She began smoothing on cover-up and foundation, and Shaylene walked over and started talking. "And where are you headed to, Missy?"

Bridget glanced up at her; sometimes she felt like Shaylene was her mother, and, as always, Bridget chafed under anyone else's authority. "I'm going to San Fran for probably most of the day. Shopping," Bridget said blandly, rubbing a bit of brightener under her eyes to cover up those dark circles. She didn't glance up to see Shay's reaction, which was one of some surprise, since Bridget was generally broke and, though not currently in debt, generally not used to spending a lot of money on herself. Sure, she bought the requisite amount of lingerie, hair, and make-up products, but those were generally work-related expenses. "I'll probably be back late-ish," she continued after a moment of reflection.

It was, after all, seven hours there and back with no traffic, and if they only spent two or so hours in the city, that was still nine hours without a lunch or dinner break, which meant she'd be back at seven at the earliest, but more probably somewhere around nine or ten or later still. Bridget dabbed a bit of cover-up on her eyelids so that her eyeshadow would stick and wouldn't drift into the creases of her eyelids. "Oh, really? And does this have anything to do with Mr. Moneybags?" Shaylene continued, plopping into the seat next to her and examining the lipgloss Bridget was planning on wearing.

Bridget had begun spreading on a light tan eyeshadow and opened one eye to meet Shaylene's gaze. She sighed, closing her eye and switching to the other before deciding to tell her. "Yes," she said succinctly, opening her eyes and closing them in turn to study her work. She brushed a bit more of the same color on and then started dipping her brush in the gold. Shaylene's fingers closing around Bridget's wrist stilled her hand, forcing her to properly look up at her roommate. "I told you, Shay, we're just going shopping. Maybe dinner or something."

Shaylene gave her one of her patented looks. "He met you _yesterday._ What do you have to shop for together?" she pointed out. Bridget frowned a little; she was usually thought of as the tactless one of the two of them, not that Shaylene didn't have a point. Of course, Bridget knew the best way to irritate her was to not tell her, so she shook off her best friend's grip and started dusting the shell of her eyelid with gold, working the brush in tiny circles in the corners. Shaylene grabbed her wrist again, and Bridget was glad she stopped herself from spreading eyeliner halfway across her face or, worse, jabbing herself in the eye. "Answer me, Bridget," Shaylene demanded, her voice firm.

Bridget shook off Shaylene's grip, giving her a mildly irritated look, well aware that she was running out of time. She didn't have to answer for any of this. "If you must know, I'm going to this event with him tomorrow, and I need something to wear, so he offered..." she elaborated with a bit of a shrug. Bridget repeated the process with the other eye and then rubbed her brush in a browny-bronze pigment, which she proceeded to spread into the creases of her eyelids. Taking a different brush, she blended the shades until she was satisfied. "Now, honestly, help me do my bronzer and blush."

Shaylene picked up the bronzer and started to do as Bridget had asked just as Bridget picked up the eyeliner pen. "A lot of make-up you're painting on there. I wasn't aware you were working today," Shaylene commented blithely. Bridget scowled at her and carefully started to line her eyes the way Siobhan did. Shaylene watched in amusement as she opened the container of blush and started to coat the brush almost absentmindedly. "Not going so heavy on the eyeliner, are we? Trying to impress someone?" Bridget tried her best to ignore her, continuing to outline her eyes as Shaylene started to brush the pale pink blush onto her cheeks.

Bridget put on a few swipes of mascara and then reached for the lipgloss she was going to be using. Shaylene put down the blush, almost snatching the tube out of Bridget's hand. "You better not be using that," she said with a warning look before releasing the lipgloss. Bridget rolled her eyes, not deigning to comment. Sometimes, like now, Shaylene reminded her of Siobhan, always knowing which button to press, and it was almost like having a sister again.

She tried not to think about Siobhan much these days, not that it stopped her from wondering, every day and without fail, what her sister was doing. Sometimes she would feel pangs of things, little bits of her sister's life filtered down to her. But maybe she could finally find out a bit more about her sister's life, something concrete from Andrew, when she pretended to be her. It would be like old times, only without a smiling Siobhan in on the joke. Bridget unscrewed the tube thoughtfully and began painting her lips, which she proceeded to rub together. "Don't worry, Shay. My lips won't be touching anything but food today," she assured Shaylene, reaching across the table to pat her hand.

Shaylene did not look even remotely reassured. Her hand snaked across the table to grab Bridget's, something rather akin to panic but somehow less on her face. "Bridge, I can't help but worry. You barely know this guy... and I've never even seen him... I mean, what if he's a serial killer?" she interjected a bit nervously. Bridget felt like snorting; the thought of her sister's wealthy, repressed British husband being a serial killer was really that ludicrous, but Shaylene didn't know any of that. Given some of the choices Bridget had made, she supposed Shaylene was right to worry... and nothing Bridget could say would make her stop worrying.

So Bridget laughed instead, lips curving up into a smile, although Shaylene didn't seem to find it funny at all. "Well, then I guess I'd have to dispatch him if he came after me." Shaylene was extremely unamused; a shiver ran through her at the remembrance of Bodaway. Bridget might be all laughs and smiles now, but they'd both be dead if it wasn't for Victor and a lot of dumb luck. "It's a good thing I carry a knife in my purse, isn't it?" Bridget continued, reaching into her bag and throwing the cosmetics in. She wasn't joking, and Shaylene almost blanched. Bridget shrugged defensively. "What? One psychopath's already tried to kill me. Doesn't hurt to be prepared."

Bridget was much better in a fight than Shaylene had ever expected, faster, braver, and more violent than she'd have ever expected the gentle woman to be. She was good at improvising, which is how she'd ensured that Bodaway kept coming after her, throwing things in his way and hitting him with any object within reach, backing up the stairs to give Shaylene time to escape and call Victor. Shaylene's expression turned even more grim, if that was possible. She was beginning to feel nauseous, her breakfast not quite sitting right in her stomach anymore. She generally tried to avoid thinking about that awful day when she'd come so close to death, the pressure on her windpipe, cutting off her air, her vision gradually turning black, scratching at Bodaway's hands.

Shaylene swallowed and straightened a little. "Seriously, Bridget, I'd just be happier if I knew where you were and what you were doing. I don't want anything to happen to you." _Again_, the cowardly voice in her head finished. In most ways, Bridget had gotten the bad end of the bargain in their fight with Bodaway. She'd had a lot of bruises, a couple broken bones, or so Shaylene thought. Bridget didn't really talk about it, and on the rare occasions Shaylene had tried, she'd brushed her off, merely saying she'd done what she'd had to do and that she would do it again.

Bridget squeezed her hand warmly and looked Shaylene in the eyes. "Shay, I promise, nothing bad is going to happen to me. This guy is lonely, and he's in finance... He doesn't even want me to do anything sexual. He's not going to waste his time, money, or reputation doing something terrible to me," she attempted to explain, hoping she was imparting at least some measure of her faith in Andrew. Predictably, Shaylene gave her a look; she'd opened her mouth and was about to say something, probably about how working girls were high-risk victims for serial killers, but Bridget spoke first. "He's not Jack the Ripper, I swear."

Shaylene made a sour face. Something about Shaylene's recent behavior was off; she was being more overprotective even than usual, a bit moodier, and she'd made Bridget a big breakfast, which usually meant she wanted to talk about something. It couldn't have just been Andrew she wanted to discuss... which meant that Shaylene was hiding something. Bridget stared at her friend for a good long moment, taking in all the minute details but unable to find anything conclusive. All there was was the feeling that something about her was off, and, perhaps, the fact that Shaylene didn't look entirely well. "Is something... up... with you? You look like you want to tell me something," Bridget remarked warily.

Shaylene straightened a bit under Bridget's scrutiny; was she really that obvious? Bridget studied her friend for a long moment, unable to put a finger on just what, exactly, it was that she was missing. She started guessing at the cause of her friend's strange mood, which lead, of course, to Victor. Whatever it was, Bridget mused, it almost certainly had to do with Shaylene's boyfriend, who would probably soon be more than that if he had his way. Maybe Shaylene was going to tell Bridget that she was going to move-in with Victor, or maybe she was going to ask her what she thought about Victor living with them?

Shaylene shook her head a bit too forcefully, which pretty much cemented the idea in Bridget's head that Shay was keeping a secret from her, and maybe even from Victor too. She let go of Bridget's hand and attempted a smile that came out looking more strained than anything. "Nope, just... I worry." Bridget gave Shaylene a look, not about to let that slide, but Shaylene found herself continuing. Strangely, tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of something happening to Bridget. She sniffed and looked away from Bridget, not wanting her to see the mess that she was becoming. "I don't want you to get hurt," she mumbled, an almost pleading note in her voice.

Bridget sighed, taking her phone out of her purse and holding it up for Shaylene to see before putting it into her pocket. "I have my phone on me, Shay, and I promise I'll tell you exactly where I'm going... and if you want, you can even get Vic..." Bridget paused, thinking better of it. Getting Victor to do a background check on Andrew constituted a Very Bad Idea. It could lead to nothing good... and she could almost hear Shaylene's voice in her head, judging her... She shook her head and continued as if she hadn't said anything about Victor, "I'll give you his license plate number and the make and model, okay, just so you can check on me. If I'm not back by tomorrow morning and haven't texted you or anything, feel free to call the cops." She couldn't think of anything else she could possibly say to reassure Shaylene, not even the truth.

Shaylene's brows shot up, but she nodded, still blinking back tears. "I'm gonna hold you to that, y'know." Bridget nodded dutifully, and Shaylene, who had mastered herself, crossed her arms over her chest and watched her friend. Bridget seemed outwardly calm, and she'd said everything as if she'd believed with the deepest conviction what she was telling her... and yet, something about her suggested a kind of anxiety that convinced Shaylene that Bridget was looking forward to this outing. She'd never looked forward to dates with customers in Shaylene's limited memory, had always been matter-of-fact, a bit grim even when she rehashed the grisly details back when she'd actually told Shaylene about her little "dates" and "favors." But, then again, she'd mostly been too drunk or high to have shame at that particular period.

"Why do you trust this guy so much?" Shaylene asked suddenly, remembering the way Bridget often spoke of customers... most often with boredom, other times disgust or pity, and, more often than not, revulsion. Bridget's views on men were usually even harsher than Shaylene's, and she was not the type to see anyone with rose-colored glasses. She couldn't fathom the sudden lack of sarcasm. What could possibly be so special about this guy? After all, it wasn't like Bridget to be swayed by money or a pretty face. "It's not like you," she reflected distractedly, hands curling around her waist.

Bridget fluffed her hair furtively, looking away to give herself a moment to think of a suitable answer. Shaylene was right, but there was no way Bridget could explain without the whole story coming out. How once someone had won the trust of one twin, he automatically had the trust of the other... but then again, she'd been wrong about that at least once, with Dylan. And maybe she was wrong about Andrew too, but she didn't want to think that, didn't want to believe that there was some reason she shouldn't trust her sister's husband... her family, one of the few ties she had left to her sister.

Fortunately, Bridget was saved from answering by the chime of the doorbell. She got up to answer it before Shaylene could, grabbing her bag and all but running to the front door. When she'd finally reached the door, she did her best to fix her hair a little, took a deep breath, and opened it to reveal Andrew. He looked good, better than she remembered in the sunlight, even though he wasn't wearing a suit now. An unbidden smile spread across her face at the sight of him. "Hi," she said a bit shyly, wedging into the doorway and starting to slide out so that Shaylene wouldn't see him. She did not want to have to introduce them.

Andrew smiled back uncertainly; it was still too soon to tell whether or not this was a horrible idea, even though everything in him was telling him it was. "Hey." Bridget stepped out onto the porch, twirling her keys around her finger, and the hot and bright desert sunlight hit her hair in such a way that all he saw was golden. She walked toward him slowly, hitching her bag up her shoulder, holding a hand up to shade her eyes, taking in the sight of him in the light of day. He looked a little more at ease, though, Bridget thought.

He gazed at her for a moment in silence and found that he very much wanted to kiss her. He hated that he had to suppress the perplexing desire, which felt so natural, like he should've been kissing her for a long time, even though their lips have never touched. But it feels like they have.

He swallowed thickly, trying to find words. What did one say to the stripper who was going to be his wife for a day? Somehow talking to this woman he was compensating for her time seemed almost as difficult as speaking to his wife (whom he supposed, rather bitterly, that he also compensated for her time). He surprised himself by taking her hand and bringing her closer so that they were nearly touching. Bridget didn't know what to make any of it. He smiled awkwardly and decided to try to make the best of it. At least he wouldn't be alone. "So, Bridget, ready to be my wife?"

Bridget laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. She spun around, her lips just brushing past his ear. "You bet." Then she turned and pulled him after her down the stairs, all but dragging him to the car. "Now, come on. We've got a long day ahead of us." She was still afraid that Shaylene was going to burst through the front door, perhaps with some sort of gun in hand. Victor had been hinting recently that they should have some way of protecting themselves, that he could help them with the necessary permits, but both women hated guns. Not that that meant, of course, that Bridget didn't know how to shoot; teaching his daughters how to use a gun was one of the few things their father had been good for, aside from buying underage girls booze and cigarettes.

She'd nearly caused Andrew to fall in her haste to get away, not that Bridget noticed. She only relaxed when she was in the car, chucking her bag to the floor and fastening her seatbelt. Andrew had opened the door for her, but she hadn't noticed that either; she hadn't taken her eyes off of the front of her house, still expecting to see Shaylene's face. Andrew pulled out of her driveway wordlessly, concentrating on his driving. It was still a bit hard for him, at times, to remember to drive on the right side of the road, even though he'd spent most of his adult life in the States. It still went against instinct, even though he was more comfortable here in the wide, open sun-soaked spaces and big cities than he'd ever been in his native land.

Bridget turned to him as they turned off her street, relieved but secretly a little disappointed because she would've rather liked to hear Shaylene's impressions of Andrew. Shaylene was good at sizing people up and figuring them out... in a different way than Bridget was, but a part of Bridget really did want to know what Shay thought. Bridget looked at him for a moment, not saying a word. He had such a serious look on his face; his hands clenched the wheel so tight. She licked her lips absently, trying to figure out how to play this.

It was one thing when she was in the club with him; she knew how to be there, how to act, exactly what those men wanted... and she wasn't quite comfortable, but it was familiar and easy to be that person. But this... this was a whole different playing field, and she had no clue who she was supposed to be around him, how much of Siobhan he wanted... or how much of Siobhan he knew. Everything was different in the light of day. And, well, she was a little nervous, too. She sort of wanted to impress him or at least to make him like her, but she didn't want to scare him off or get in over her head. And she wasn't sure she knew how to balance all of that.

Plus Bridget hadn't been out on a proper date in ages, since long before rehab, and the only men she'd hung around with recently were Malcolm and the other guys at NA, her customers and coworkers at the club, and Victor and his band of cops, FBI guys, and lawyers. She'd almost forgotten what normal interaction was like. She was going to have to make up the rules as she went along... and ask Andrew a lot of questions. Having come to this resolution, she cleared her throat and began trying to get to know him, "So, Andrew... Tell me about yourself."


End file.
